CRITTENDEN 


CRITTENDEN 

A  KENTUCKY  STORY   OF 
LOVE  AND  WAR 


BY 
JOHN  FOX,  JR 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
F.  GRAHAM  COOTES 


NEW  YORK 

CHABXJES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1912 


J   !   •:   i  COPYRIGHT,  1900,  BT 

*  CtekilLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


So 

THE  MASTER  OF 
BALLYHOO 


9898 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

John  Fox,  Jr.  (from  a  photograph)    .     .    .    Frontispiece 
"Goon!"  said  Judith 

"  Nothin',  Ole  Cap'n — jes  doin*  nothin' — jes  lookin' 
for  you" 


CRITTENDEN 


DAY  breaking  on  the  edge  of  the  Bludgr'ass 
and  birds  singing  the  dawn  in.  *-l;en;  min 
utes  swiftly  along  the  sunrise  and  the  world  is 
changed:  from  nervous  exaltation  of  atmosphere 
to  an  air  of  balm  and  peace;  from  grim  hills  to 
the  rolling  sweep  of  green  slopes;  from  a  high 
mist  of  thin  verdure  to  low  wind-shaken  ban 
ners  of  young  leaves;  from  giant  poplar  to  white 
ash  and  sugar-tree;  from  log-cabin  to  home 
steads  of  brick  and  stone;  from  wood-thrush  to 
meadow-lark;  rhododendron  to  bluegrass;  from 
mountain  to  lowland,  Crittenden  was  passing 
home. 

He  had  been  in  the  backwoods  for  more  than 
a  month,  ostensibly  to  fish  and  look  at  coal 
lands,  but,  really,  to  get  away  for  a  while,  as 
his  custom  was,  from  his  worse  self  to  the  better 
self  that  he  was  when  he  was  in  the  mountains 
— alone.  As  usual,  he  had  gone  in  with  bitter 
ness  and,  as  usual,  he  had  set  his  face  home- 

I 


CRITTENDEN 

ward  with  but  hdf  a  heart  for  the  old  fight 
against  fate  and  himself  that  seemed  destined 
always  to  end  in  defeat.  At  dusk,  he  heard  the 
word  of  the  outer  world  from  the  lips  of  an  old 
mountaineer  at  the  foot  of  the  Cumberland — 
the  first  heard,  except  from  his  mother,  for  full 
thirty  days — and  the  word  was — war.  He 
smiled  incredulously  at  the  old  fellow,  but,  un 
consciously,  he  pushed  his  horse  on  a  little 
faster  up  the  mountain,  pushed  him,  as  the 
mobii  rose,  aslant  the  breast  of  a  mighty  hill 
and,  winding  at  a  gallop  about  the  last  down 
ward  turn  of  the  snaky  path,  went  at  full  speed 
alongside  the  big  gray  wall  that,  above  him, 
rose  sheer  a  thousand  feet  and,  straight  ahead, 
broke  wildly  and  crumbled  into  historic  Cum 
berland  Gap.  From  a  little  knoll  he  saw  the 
railway  station  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  and, 
on  one  prong  of  a  switch,  his  train  panting 
lazily;  and,  with  a  laugh,  he  pulled  his  horse 
down  to  a  walk  and  then  to  a  dead  stop — his 
face  grave  again  and  uplifted.  Where  his  eyes 
rested  and  plain  in  the  moonlight  was  a  rocky 
path  winding  upward — the  old  Wilderness  Trail 
that  the  Kentucky  pioneers  had  worn  with  moc- 
casined  feet  more  than  a  century  before.  He 
had  seen  it  a  hundred  times  before — moved 
always;  but  it  thrilled  him  now,  and  he  rode  on 
siowlv.  looking  UD  at  it.  His  forefathers  had 

2 


CRITTENDEN 

helped  blaze  that  trail.  On  one  side  of  that 
wall  they  had  fought  savage  and  Briton  for  a 
home  and  a  country,  and  on  the  other  side  they 
had  done  it  again.  Later,  they  had  fought  the 
Mexican  and  in  time  they  came  to  fight  each 
other,  for  and  against  the  nation  they  had  done 
so  much  to  upbuild.  It  was  even  true  that  a 
Critteriden  had  already  given  his  life  for  the  very 
cause  that  was  so  tardily  thrilling  the  nation 
now.  Thus  it  had  always  been  with  his  people 
straight  down  the  bloody  national  highway  from 
Yorktown  to  Appomattox,  and  if  there  was  war, 
he  thought  proudly,  as  he  swung  from  his 
horse — thus  it  would  now  be  with  him. 

If  there  was  war  ?  He  had  lain  awake  in  his 
berth  a  long  while,  looking  out  the  window  and 
wondering.  He  had  been  born  among  the 
bleeding  memories  of  one  war.  The  tales  of 
his  nursery  had  been  tales  of  war.  And  though 
there  had  been  talk  of  war  through  the  land  for 
weeks  before  he  left  home,  it  had  no  more  seemed 
possible  that  in  his  lifetime  could  come  another 
war  than  that  he  should  live  to  see  any  other 
myth  of  his  childhood  come  true. 

Now,  it  was  daybreak  on  the  edge  of  the  Blue- 
grass,  and,  like  a  dark  truth  from  a  white  light, 
three  tall  letters  leaped  from  the  paper  in  his 
hand — War!  There  was  a  token  in  the  very 
dawn,  a  sword-like  flame  flashing  upward.  The 

3 


CRITTENDEN 

man  in  the  White  House  had  called  for  willing 
hands  by  the  thousands  to  wield  it,  and  the 
Kentucky  Legion,  that  had  fought  in  Mexico, 
had  split  in  twain  to  fight  for  the  North  and  for 
the  South,  and  had  come  shoulder  to  shoulder 
when  the  breach  was  closed — the  Legion  of  his 
own  loved  State — was  the  first  body  of  volun 
teers  to  reach  for  the  hilt.  Regulars  were  gath 
ering  from  the  four  winds  to  an  old  Southern 
battlefield.  Already  the  Legion  was  on  its  way 
to  camp  in  the  Bluegrass.  His  town  was  mak 
ing  ready  to  welcome  it,  and  among  the  names 
of  the  speakers  who  were  to  voice  the  welcome, 
he  saw  his  own — Clay  Crittenden. 


II 

train  slackened  speed  and  stopped. 
-•-  There  was  his  horse — Raincrow — and  his 
buggy  waiting  for  him  when  he  stepped  from 
the  platform;  and,  as  he  went  forward  with  his 
fishing  tackle,  a  livery-stable  boy  sprang  out  of 
the  buggy  and  went  to  the  horse's  head. 

"  Bob  lef '  yo'  hoss  in  town  las'  night,  Mistuh 
Crittenden,"  he  said.  "Miss  Rachel  said  yes- 
tiddy  she  jes  knowed  you  was  comin'  home  this 


mornin'.f: 


Crittenden  smiled — it  was  one  of  his  mother's 
premonitions;  she  seemed  always  to  know  when 
he  was  coming  home. 

"Come  get  these  things,"  he  said,  and  went  on 
with  his  paper. 

"Yessuh!" 

Things  had  gone  swiftly  while  he  was  in  the 
hills.  Old  ex-Confederates  were  answering  the 
call  from  the  Capitol.  One  of  his  father's  old 
comrades — little  Jerry  Carter — was  to  be  made 
a  major-general.  Among  the  regulars  mobiliz 
ing  at  Chickamauga  was  the  regiment  to  which 
Rivers,  a  friend  of  his  boyhood,  belonged.  There, 

5 


CRITTENDEN 

three  days  later,  his  State  was  going  to  dedicate 
two  monuments  to  her  sons  who  had  fallen  on 
the  old  battle-field,  where  his  father,  fighting 
with  one  wing  of  the  Legion  for  the  Lost  Cause, 
and  his  father's  young  brother,  fighting  with  the 
other  against  it,  had  fought  face  to  face;  where 
his  uncle  met  death  on  the  field  and  his  father 
got  the  wound  that  brought  death  to  him  year 
after  the  war.  And  then  he  saw  something  thav 
for  a  moment  quite  blotted  the  war  from  his 
brain  and  made  him  close  the  paper  quickly. 
Judith  had  come  home — Judith  was  to  unveil 
those  statues — Judith  Page. 

The  town  was  asleep,  except  for  the  rattle  of 
milk-carts,  the  banging  of  shutters,  and  the 
hum  of  a  street-car,  and  Crittenden  moved 
through  empty  streets  to  the  broad  smooth  turn 
pike  on  the  south,  where  Raincrow  shook  his 
head,  settled  his  haunches,  and  broke  into  the 
swinging  trot  peculiar  to  his  breed — for  home. 

Spring  in  the  Bluegrass!  The  earth  spiritual 
as  it  never  is  except  under  new-fallen  snow — in 
the  first  shy  green.  The  leaves,  a  floating  mist 
of  green,  so  buoyant  that,  if  loosed,  they  must, 
it  seemed,  have  floated  upward — never  to  know 
the  blight  of  frost  or  the  droop  of  age.  The 
air,  rich  with  the  smell  of  new  earth  and  sprout 
ing  grass,  the  long,  low  skies  newly  washed  and, 
through  radiant  distances,  clouds  light  as  thistle- 

6 


CRITTENDEN 

down  and  white  as  snow.  And  the  birds! 
Wrens  in  the  hedges,  sparrows  by  the  wayside 
and  on  fence-rails,  starlings  poised  over  mead 
ows  brilliant  with  glistening  dew,  larks  in  the 
pastures — all  singing  as  they  sang  at  the  first 
dawn,  and  the  mood  of  nature  that  perfect 
blending  of  earth  and  heaven  that  is  given  her 
children  but  rarely  to  know.  It  was  good  to  be 
alive  at  the  breaking  of  such  a  day — good  to  be 
young  and  strong,  and  eager  and  unafraid, 
when  the  nation  called  for  its  young  men  and 
red  Mars  was  the  morning  star.  The  blood  of 
dead  fighters  began  to  leap  again  in  his  veins. 
His  nostrils  dilated  and  his  chin  was  raised 
proudly — a  racial  chord  touched  within  him 
that  had  been  dumb  a  long  while.  And  that 
was  all  it  was — the  blood  of  his  fathers;  for  it 
was  honor  and  not  love  that  bound  him  to  his 
own  flag.  He  was  his  mother's  son,  and  the 
unspoken  bitterness  that  lurked  in  her  heart 
lurked,  likewise,  on  her  account,  in  his. 

On  the  top  of  a  low  hill,  a  wind  from  the 
dawn  struck  him,  and  the  paper  in  the  bottom 
of  the  buggy  began  to  snap  against  the  dash 
board.  He  reached  down  to  keep  it  from  being 
whisked  into  the  road,  and  he  saw  again  that 
Judith  Page  had  come  home.  When  he  sat  up 
again,  his  face  was  quite  changed.  His  head 
fell  a  little  forward,  his  shoulders  drooped 

7 


CRITTENDEN 

slightly  and,  for  a  moment,  his  buoyancy  was 
gone.  The  corners  of  the  mouth  showed  a 
settled  melancholy  where  before  was  sunny  hu 
mour.  The  eyes,  which  were  dreamy,  kindly, 
gray,  looked  backward  in  a  morbid  glow  of 
concentration;  and  over  the  rather  reckless  cast 
of  his  features,  lay  at  once  the  shadow  of  suffer 
ing  and  the  light  of  a  great  tenderness.  Slowly, 
a  little  hardness  came  into  his  eyes  and  a  little 
bitterness  about  his  mouth.  His  upper  lip 
curved  in  upon  his  teeth  with  self-scorn — for  he 
had  had  little  cause  to  be  pleased  with  himself 
while  Judith  was  gone,  and  his  eyes  showed 
now  how  proud  was  the  scorn — and  he  shook 
himself  sharply  and  sat  upright.  He  had  for 
gotten  again.  That  part  of  his  life  belonged  to 
the  past  and,  like  the  past,  was  gone,  and  was 
not  to  come  back  again.  The  present  had  life 
and  hope  now,  and  the  purpose  born  tha*  day 
from  five  blank  years  was  like  the  sudden  birth 
of  a  flower  in  a  desert. 

The  sun  had  burst  from  the  horizon  now  and 
was  shining  through  the  tops  of  the  trees  in  the 
lovely  woodland  into  which  Crittenden  turned, 
and  through  which  a  road  of  brown  creek-sand 
ran  to  the  pasture  beyond  and  through  that  to 
the  long  avenue  of  locusts,  up  which  the  noble 
portico  of  his  old  homestead,  Canewood,  was 
visible  among  cedars  and  firs  and  old  forest- 

8 


CRITTENDEN 

trees.  His  mother  was  not  up  yet — the  shutters 
of  her  window  were  still  closed — but  the  ser 
vants  were  astir  and  busy.  He  could  see  men 
and  plough-horses  on  their  way  to  the  fields; 
and,  that  far  away,  he  could  hear  the  sound  of 
old  Ephraim's  axe  at  the  woodpile,  the  noises 
around  the  barn  and  cowpens,  and  old  Aunt 
Keziah  singing  a  hymn  in  the  kitchen,  the  old 
wailing  cry  of  the  mother-slave. 

"  Oh  I  wonder  whur  my  baby's  done  gone, 

Oh  Lawd! 
An'  I  git  on  my  knees  an'  pray." 

The  song  stopped,  a  negro  boy  sprang  out  the 
kitchen-door  and  ran  for  the  stiles — a  tall, 
strong,  and  very  black  boy  with  a  dancing  eye, 
white  teeth,  and  a  look  of  welcome  that  was 
little  short  of  dumb  idolatry. 

"Howdy,  Bob." 

"Howdy,  Ole  Cap'n."  Crittenden  had  been 
"Ole  Captain"  with  the  servants — since  the 
death  of  "Ole  Master,"  his  father — to  distin 
guish  him  from  "Young  Captain,"  who  was  his 
brother,  Basil.  Master  and  servant  shook 
hands  and  Bob's  teeth  flashed. 

"What's  the  matter,  Bob?" 

Bob  climbed  into  the  buggy. 

"You  gwine  to  de  wah." 

Crittenden  laughed. 

9 


CRITTENDEN 

"How  do  you  know,  Bob?" 

"Oh,  I  know — I  know.  I  seed  it  when  you 
was  drivin'  up  to  de  stiles,  an'  lemme  tell  you, 
Ole  Cap'n."  The  horse  started  for  the  barn 
suddenly  and  Bob  took  a  wide  circuit  in  order 
to  catch  the  eye  of  a  brown  milkmaid  in  the 
cowpens,  who  sniffed  the  air  scornfully,  to  show 
that  she  did  not  see  him,  and  buried  the  waves 
of  her  black  hair  into  the  silken  sides  of  a  young 
Jersey. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head  and  making 
threats  to  himself,  "an*  Bob's  gwine  wid  him." 

As  Crittenden  climbed  the  stiles,  old  Keziah 
filled  the  kitchen-door. 

"Time  you  gittin'  back,  suh,"  she  cried  with 
mock  severity.  "I  been  studyin'  'bout  you. 
Little  mo'  an'  I'd  'a'  been  comin'  fer  you  my 
self.  Yes— suh." 

And  she  gave  a  loud  laugh  that  rang  through 
the  yard  and  ended  in  a  soft,  queer  little  whoop 
that  was  musical.  Crittenden  smiled  but,  in 
stead  of  answering,  raised  his  hand  warningly 
and,  as  he  approached  the  portico,  he  stepped 
from  the  gravel-walk  to  the  thick  turf  and  began 
to  tiptoe.  At  the  foot  of  the  low  flight  of  stone 
steps  he  stopped — smiling. 

The  big  double  front  door  was  wide  open,  and 
straight  through  the  big,  wide  hallway  and  at 
the  entrance  of  the  dining-room,  a  sword — a 

10 


CRITTENDEN 

long  cavalry  sabre — hung  with  a  jaunty  gray 
cap  on  the  wall.  Under  them  stood  a  boy  with 
his  hands  clasped  behind  him  and  his  chin  up 
raised.  The  lad  could  see  the  bullet-hole 
through  the  top,  and  he  knew  that  on  the  visor 
was  a  faded  stain  of  his  father's  blood.  As  a 
child,  he  had  been  told  never  to  touch  the  cap 
or  sword  and,  until  this  moment,  he  had  not 
wanted  to  take  them  down  since  he  was  a  child; 
and  even  now  the  habit  of  obedience  held  him 
back  for  a  while,  as  he  stood  looking  up  at  them. 
Outside,  a  light  wind  rustled  the  leaves  of  the 
rose-bush  at  his  mother's  window,  swept  through 
the  open  door,  and  made  the  curtain  at  his  el 
bow  swell  gently.  As  the  heavy  fold  fell  back 
to  its  place  and  swung  out  again,  it  caught  the 
hilt  of  the  sword  and  made  the  metal  point  of 
the  scabbard  clank  softly  against  the  wall.  The 
boy  breathed  sharply,  remembered  that  he  was 
grown,  and  reverently  reached  upward.  There 
was  the  stain  where  the  blood  had  run  down 
from  the  furrowed  wound  that  had  caused  his 
father's  death,  long  after  the  war  and  just  be 
fore  the  boy  was  born.  The  hilt  was  tarnished, 
and  when  he  caught  it  and  pulled,  the  blade 
came  out  a  little  way  and  stuck  fast.  Some  one 
stepped  on  the  porch  outside  and  he  turned 
quickly,  as  he  might  have  turned  had  some  one 
caught  him  unsheathing  the  weapon  when  a  child 

II 


CRITTENDEN 

"Hold  on  there,  little  brother." 

Crittenden  stopped  in  the  doorway,  smiling 
affectionately,  and  the  boy  thrust  the  blade  back 
to  the  hilt. 

"Why,  Clay,"  he  cried,  and,  as  he  ran  for 
ward,  "Are  you  going?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"I'm  the  first-born,  you  know," added  Critten 
den,  still  smiling,  and  the  lad  stretched  the  sabre 
out  to  him,  repeating  eagerly,  "Are  you  going  ?" 

The  older  brother  did  not  answer,  but  turned, 
without  taking  the  weapon,  and  walked  to  the 
door  and  back  again. 

"Are  you?" 

"Me?  Oh,  I  have  to  go,"  said  the  boy 
solemnly  and  with  great  dignity,  as  though  the 
matter  were  quite  beyond  the  pale  of  discussion. 

"You  do?" 

"Yes;  the  Legion  is  going." 

"Only  the  members  who  volunteer — nobody 
has  to  go." 

"Don't  they?"  said  the  lad,  indignantly. 
"Well,  if  I  had  a  son  who  belonged  to  a  military 
organization  in  time  of  peace" — the  lad  spoke 
glibly — "and  refused  to  go  with  it  to  war — well, 
I'd  rather  see  him  dead  first." 

"Who  said  that?"  asked  the  otner,  and  the 
lad  coloured. 

"Wliy,  Judge  Page  said  it;  that's  who.  And 
you  just  ought  to  hear  Miss  Judith!" 

12 


CRITTENDEN 

Again  the  other  walked  to  the  door  and  back 
again.  Then  he  took  the  scabbard  and  drew 
the  blade  to  its  point  as  easily  as  though  it  had 
been  oiled,  thrust  it  back,  and  hung  it  with  the 
cap  in  its  place  on  the  wall. 

"  Perhaps  neither  of  us  will  need  it,"  he  said. 
"We'll  both  be  privates — that  is,  if  I  go — and  I 
tell  you  what  we'll  do.  We'll  let  the  better  man 
win  the  sword,  and  the  better  man  shall  have  it 
after  the  war.  What  do  you  say  ?" 

"Say?"  cried  the  boy,  and  he  gave  the  other 
a  hug  and  both  started  for  the  porch.  As  they 
passed  the  door  of  his  mother's  room,  the  lad 
put  one  finger  on  his  lips;  but  the  mother  had 
heard  and,  inside,  a  woman  in  black,  who  had 
been  standing  before  a  mirror  with  her  hands 
to  her  throat,  let  them  fall  suddenly  until  they 
were  clasped  for  an  instant  across  her  breast. 
But  she  gave  no  sign  that  she  had  heard,  at 
breakfast  an  hour  later,  even  when  the  boy 
cleared  his  throat,  and  after  many  futile  efforts 
to  bring  the  matter  up,  signalled  across  the 
table  to  his  brother  for  help. 

"  Mother,  Basil  there  wants  to  go  to  war.  He 
says  if  he  had  a  son  who  belonged  to  a  military 
organization  in  time  of  peace  and  refused  to  go 
with  it  in  time  of  war,  that  he'd  rather  see  him 
dead." 

The  mother's  lip  quivered  when  she  answered, 
13 


CRITTENDEN 

but  so  imperceptibly  that  only  the  older  son  saw 
it. 

"That  is  what  his  father  would  have  said," 
she  said,  quietly,  and  Crittenden  knew  she  had 
already  fought  out  the  battle  with  herself — 
alone.  For  a  moment  the  boy  was  stunned  with 
his  good  fortune — "it  was  too  easy" — and  with 
a  whoop  he  sprang  from  his  place  and  caught 
his  mother  around  the  neck,  while  Uncle  Ben, 
the  black  butler,  shook  his  head  and  hurried 
into  the  kitchen  for  corn-bread  and  to  tell  the 
news. 

"Oh,  I  tell  you  it's  great  fun  to  have  to  goto 
war!  Mother,"  added  the  boy,  with  quick  mis 
chief,  "Clay  wants  to  go,  too." 

Crittenden  braced  himself  and  looked  up  with 
one  quick  glance  sidewise  at  his  mother's  face. 
It  had  not  changed  a  line. 

"I  heard  all  you  said  in  the  hallway.  If  a 
son  of  mine  thinks  it  his  duty  to  go,  I  shall  never 
say  one  word  to  dissuade  him — if  he  thinks  it 
is  his  duty,"  she  added,  so  solemnly  that  silence 
fell  upon  the  three,  and  with  a  smothered, 
"Good  Lawd,"  at  the  door,  Ben  hurried  again 
into  the  kitchen. 

"  Both  them  boys  was  a-goinj  off  to  git  killed 
an'  ole  Miss  Rachel  not  sayin'  one  wud  to  keep 
'em  back — not  a  wud." 

After  breakfast  the  boy  hurried  out  and,  as 

14 


CRITTENDEN 

Crittenden  rose,  the  mother,  who  pretended  to 
be  arranging  silver  at  the  old  sideboard,  spoke 
with  her  back  to  him. 

"Think  it  over,  son.  I  can't  see  that  you 
should  go,  but  if  you  think  you  ought,  I  shall 
have  nothing  to  say.  Have  you  made  up  your 
mind?" 

Crittenden  hesitated. 

"Not  quite." 

"Think  it  over  very  carefully,  then — please — 
for  my  sake."  Her  voice  trembled,  and,  with 
a  pang,  Crittenden  thought  of  the  suffering  she 
had  known  from  one  war.  Basil's  way  was 
clear,  and  he  could  never  ask  the  boy  to  give  up 
to  him  because  he  was  the  elder.  Was  it  fair 
to  his  brave  mother  for  him  to  go,  too — was  it 
right  ? 

"Yes-  mother,"  he  said,  soberly. 


HI 

'l  AHE  Legion  came  next  morning  and  pitched 
•*•  camp  in  a  woodland  of  oak  and  sugar  trees, 
where  was  to  be  voiced  a  patriotic  welcome  by 
a  great  editor,  a  great  orator,  and  young  Crit- 
tenden. 

Before  noon,  company  streets  were  laid  out 
and  lined  with  tents  and,  when  the  first  buggies 
and  rockaways  began  to  roll  in  from  the  country, 
every  boy-soldier  was  brushed  and  burnished  to 
defy  the  stare  of  inspection  and  to  quite  dazzle 
the  eye  of  masculine  envy  or  feminine  admira 
tion. 

In  the  centre  of  the  woodland  was  a  big  audi 
torium,  where  the  speaking  was  to  take  place. 
After  the  orators  were  done,  there  was  to  be  a 
regimental  review  in  the  bluegrass  pasture  in 
front  of  historic  Ashland.  It  was  at  the  Col- 
oners  tent,  where  Crittenden  went  to  pay  his 
respects,  that  he  found  Judith  Page,  and  he 
stopped  for  a  moment  under  an  oak,  taking  in 
the  gay  party  of  women  and  officers  who  sat 
and  stood  about  the  entrance.  In  the  centre  of 
the  group  stood  a  lieutenant  in  the  blue  of  a 

16 


CRITTENDEN 

regular  and  with  the  crossed  sabres  of  the 
cavalryman  on  his  neck-band  and  the  number 
of  his  regiment.  The  girl  was  talking  to  the 
gallant  old  Colonel  with  her  back  to  Crittenden, 
but  he  would  have  known  her  had  he  seen  but 
an  arm,  a  shoulder,  the  poise  of  her  head,  a 
single  gesture — although  he  had  not  seen  her  for 
years.  The  figure  was  the  same — a  little  fuller, 
perhaps,  but  graceful,  round,  and  slender,  as 
was  the  throat.  The  hair  was  a  trifle  darker, 
he  thought,  but  brown  still,  and  as  rich  with 
gold  as  autumn  sunlight.  The  profile  was  in 
outline  now — it  was  more  cleanly  cut  than  ever. 
The  face  was  a  little  older,  but  still  remarkably 
girlish  in  spite  of  its  maturer  strength;  and  as 
she  turned  to  answer  his  look,  he  kept  on  un 
consciously  reaffirming  to  his  memory  the  broad 
brow  and  deep  clear  eyes,  even  while  his  hand 
was  reaching  for  the  brim  of  his  hat.  She 
showed  only  gracious  surprise  at  seeing  him 
and,  to  his  wonder,  he  was  as  calm  and  cool  as 
though  he  were  welcoming  back  home  any  good 
friend  who  had  been  away  a  long  time.  He 
could  now  see  that  the  lieutenant  belonged  to 
the  Tenth  United  States  Cavalry;  he  knew  that 
the  Tenth  was  a  colored  regiment;  he  under 
stood  a  certain  stiffness  that  he  felt  rather  than 
saw  in  the  courtesy  that  was  so  carefully  shown 
him  by  the  Southern  volunteers  who  were  about 

17 


CRITTENDEN 

him;  and  he  turned  away  to  avoid  meeting  him. 
For  the  same  reason,  he  fancied,  Judith  turned, 
too.  The  mere  idea  of  negro  soldiers  was  not 
only  repugnant  to  him,  but  he  did  not  believe  in 
negro  regiments.  These  would  be  the  men  who 
could  and  would  organize  and  drill  the  blacks 
in  the  South;  who,  in  other  words,  would  make 
possible,  hasten,  and  prolong  the  race  war  that 
sometimes  struck  him  as  inevitable.  As  he 
turned,  he  saw  a  tall,  fine-looking  negro,  fifty 
yards  away,  in  the  uniform  of  a  sergeant  of 
cavalry  and  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  gaping 
darkies  whom  he  was  haranguing  earnestly. 
Lieutenant  and  sergeant  were  evidently  on  an 
enlisting  tour. 

Just  then,  a  radiant  little  creature  looked  up 
into  Crittenden's  face,  calling  him  by  name  and 
holding  out  both  hands — Phyllis,  Basil's  little 
sweetheart.  With  her  was  a  tall,  keen-featured 
fellow,  whom  she  introduced  as  a  war  corres 
pondent  and  a  Northerner. 

"A  sort  of  war  correspondent,"  corrected 
Grafton,  with  a  swift  look  of  interest  at  Critten- 
den,  but  turning  his  eyes  at  once  back  to  Phyllis. 
She  was  a  new  and  diverting  type  to  the  North 
ern  man  and  her  name  was  fitting  and  pleased 
him.  A  company  passed  just  then,  and  a 
smothered  exclamation  from  Phyllis  turned  at 
tention  to  it.  On  the  end  of  the  line,  with  his 

18 


CRITTENDEN 

chin  in,  his  shoulders  squared  and  his  eyes 
straight  forward,  was  Cnttenden's  warrior- 
brother,  Basil.  Only  his  face  coloured  to  show 
that  he  knew  where  he  was  and  who  was  look 
ing  at  him,  but  not  so  much  as  a  glance  of  his 
eye  did  he  send  toward  the  tent.  Judith  turned 
to  Crittenden  quickly: 

"Your  little  brother  is  going  to  the  war?" 
The  question  was  thoughtless  and  significant, 
for  it  betrayed  to  him  what  was  going  on  in  her 
mind,  and  she  knew  it  and  coloured,  as  he  paled 
a  little. 

"My  little  brother  is  going  to  the  war,"  he 
repeated,  looking  at  her.  Judith  smiled  and 
went  on  bravely: 

"And  you?" 

Crittenden,  too,  smiled. 

"I  may  consider  it  my  duty  to  stay  at  home." 

The  girl  looked  rather  surprised — instead  of 
showing  the  subdued  sarcasm  that  he  was  look 
ing  for — and,  in  truth,  she  was.  His  evasive 
and  careless  answer  showed  an  indifference  to 
her  wish  and  opinion  in  the  matter  that  would 
once  have  been  very  unusual.  Straightway 
there  was  a  tug  at  her  heart-strings  that  also  was 
unusual. 

The  people  were  gathering  into  the  open-air 
auditorium  now  and,  from  all  over  the  camp, 
the  crowd  began  to  move  that  way.  All  knew 


CRITTENDEN 

the  word  of  the  orator's  mouth  and  the  word  of 
the  editor — they  had  heard  the  one  and  seen  the 
other  on  his  printed  page  many  times;  and  it 
was  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  that  Crittenden's 
fresh  fire  thrilled  and  swayed  the  crowd  as  it 
did. 

When  he  rose,  he  saw  his  mother  almost  under 
him  and,  not  far  behind  her,  Judith  with  her 
father,  Judge  Page.  The  lieutenant  of  regulars 
was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  and  to 
his  right  was  Grafton,  also  standing,  with  his 
hat  under  his  arm — idly  curious.  But  it  was  to 
his  mother  that  he  spoke  and,  steadfastly,  he 
saw  her  strong,  gentle  face  even  when  he  was 
looking  far  over  her  head,  and  he  knew  that  she 
knew  that  he  was  arguing  the  point  then  and 
there  between  them. 

It  was,  he  said,  the  first  war  of  its  kind  in 
history.  It  marked  an  epoch  in  the  growth  of 
national  character  since  the  world  began.  As 
an  American,  he  believed  that  no  finger  of 
medievalism  should  so  much  as  touch  this 
hemisphere.  The  Cubans  had  earned  their 
freedom  long  since,  and  the  cries  of  starving 
women  and  children  for  the  bread  which  fathers 
and  brothers  asked  but  the  right  to  earn  must 
cease.  To  put  out  of  mind  the  Americans  blown 
to  death  at  Havana — if  such  a  thing  were  pos 
sible — he  yet  believed  with  all  his  heart  in  the 

20 


CRITTENDEN 

war.  He  did  not  think  there  would  be  much  of 
a  fight — the  regular  army  could  doubtless  take 
good  care  of  the  Spaniard — but  if  everybody 
acted  on  that  presumption,  there  would  be  no 
answer  to  the  call  for  volunteers.  He  was  proud 
to  think  that  the  Legion  of  his  own  State,  that  in 
itself  stood  for  the  reunion  of  the  North  and  the 
South,  had  been  the  first  to  spring  to  arms. 
And  he  was  proud  to  think  that  not  even  they 
were  the  first  Kentuckians  to  fight  for  Cuban 
liberty.  He  was  proud  that,  before  the  Civil 
War  even,  a  Kentuckian  of  his  own  name  and 
blood  had  led  a  band  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
brave  men  of  his  own  State  against  Spanish 
tyranny  in  Cuba,  and  a  Crittenden,  with  fifty 
of  his  followers,  v/ere  captured  and  shot  in 
platoons  of  six. 

"A  Kentuckian  kneels  only  to  woman  and  his 
God,"  this  Crittenden  had  said  proudly  when 
ordered  to  kneel  blindfolded  and  with  his  face 
to  the  wall,  "and  always  dies  facing  his  enemy." 
And  so  those  Kentuckians  had  died  nearly  half 
a  century  before,  and  he  knew  that  the  young 
Kentuckians  before  him  would  as  bravely  die,  if 
need  be,  in  the  same  cause  now;  and  when  they 
came  face  to  face  with  the  Spaniard  they  would 
remember  the  shattered  battle-ship  in  the  Havana 
harbour,  and  something  more — they  would  re 
member  Crittenden.  And  then  the  speaker 

21 


CRITTENDEN 

closed  with  the  words  of  a  certain  proud  old 
Confederate  soldier  to  his  son: 

"No  matter  who  was  right  and  who  was 
/  wrong  in  the  Civil  War,  the  matter  is  settled 
now  by  the  sword.  The  Constitution  left  the 
question  open,  but  it  is  written  there  now  in 
letters  of  blood.  We  have  given  our  word  that 
they  shall  stand;  and  remember  it  is  the  word 
of  gentlemen  and  binding  on  their  sons.  There 
have  been  those  in  the  North  who  have  doubted 
that  word;  there  have  been  those  in  the  South 
who  have  given  cause  for  doubt;  and  this  may 
be  true  for  a  long  time.  But  if  ever  the  time 
comes  to  test  that  word,  do  you  be  the  first  to 
prove  it.  You  will  fight  for  your  flag — mine 
now  as  well  as  yours — just  as  sincerely  as  I 
fought  against  it."  And  these  words,  said  Crit- 
tenden  in  a  trembling  voice,  the  brave  gentle 
man  spoke  again  on  his  death-bed;  and  now,  as 
he  looked  around  on  the  fearless  young  faces 
about  him,  he  had  no  need  to  fear  that  they  were 
spoken  in  vain. 

And  so  the  time  was  come  for  the  South  to 
prove  its  loyalty — not  to  itself  nor  to  the  North, 
but  to  the  world. 

Under  him  he  saw  his  mother's  eyes  fill  with 
tears,  for  these  words  of  her  son  were  the  dying 
words  of  her  lion-hearted  husband.  And  Ju 
dith  had  sat  motionless,  watching  him  with 

22 


CRITTENDEN 

peculiar  intensity  and  flushing  a  little,  perhaps 
at  the  memory  of  her  jesting  taunt,  while  Grafton 
had  stood  still — his  eyes  fixed,  his  face  earnest — 
missing  not  a  word.  He  was  waiting  for  Crit- 
tenden,  and  he  held  his  hand  out  when  the  latter 
emerged  from  the  crowd,  with  the  curious  em 
barrassment  that  assails  the  newspaper  man 
when  he  finds  himself  betrayed  into  unusual 
feeling. 

"I  say,"  he  said;  "that  was  good,  good!" 
The  officer  who,  too,  had  stood  still  as  a 
statue,  seemed  to  be  moving  toward  him,  and 
again  Crittenden  turned  away — to  look  for  his 
mother.  She  had  gone  home  at  once — she 
could  not  face  him  now  in  that  crowd — and  as 
he  was  turning  to  his  own  buggy,  he  saw  Judith 
and  from  habit  started  toward  her,  but,  chang 
ing  his  mind,  he  raised  his  hat  and  kept  on  his 
way,  while  the  memory  of  the  girl's  face  kept 
pace  with  him. 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  a  curious  wist- 
fulness  that  was  quite  beyond  him  to  interpret — 
a  wistfulness  that  was  in  the  sudden  smile  of 
welcome  when  she  saw  him  start  toward  her  and 
in  the  startled  flush  of  surprise  when  he  stopped; 
then,  with  the  tail  of  his  eye,  he  saw  the  quick 
paleness  that  followed  as  the  girl's  sensitive 
nostrils  quivered  once  and  her  spirited  face 
settled  quickly  into  a  proud  calm.  And  then 

23 


CRITTENDEN 

he  saw  her  smile — a  strange  little  smile  that 
may  have  been  at  herself  or  at  him — and  he 
wondered  about  it  all  and  was  tempted  to  go 
back,  but  kept  on  doggedly,  wondering  at  her 
and  at  himself  with  a  miserable  grim  satisfac 
tion  that  he  was  at  last  over  and  above  it  all. 
She  had  told  him  to  conquer  his  boyish  love  foi 
her  and,  as  her  will  had  always  been  law  to  him, 
he  had  made  it,  at  last,  a  law  in  this.  The 
touch  of  the  loadstone  that  never  in  his  life  had 
failed,  had  failed  now,  and  now,  for  once  in  his 
life,  desire  and  duty  were  one. 

He  found  his  mother  at  her  seat  by  her  open 
window,  the  unopened  buds  of  her  favourite 
roses  hanging  motionless  in  the  still  air  outside, 
but  giving  their  fresh  green  faint  fragrance  to 
the  whole  room  within;  and  he  remembered  the 
quiet  sunset  scene  every  night  for  many  nights 
to  come.  Every  line  in  her  patient  face  had 
been  traced  there  by  a  sorrow  of  the  old  war, 
and  his  voice  trembled: 

"Mother,"  he  said,  as  he  bent  down  and 
kissed  her,  "I'm  going." 

Her  head  dropped  quickly  to  the  work  in  her 
lap,  but  she  said  nothing,  and  he  went  quickly 
out  again. 


IV 

IT  was  growing  dusk  outside.  Chickens  were 
going  to  roost  with  a  great  chattering  in 
some  locust-trees  in  one  corner  of  the  yard.  An 
aged  darkey  was  swinging  an  axe  at  the  wood 
pile  and  two  little  pickaninnies  were  gathering  a 
basket  of  chips.  Already  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  twilight  sounds  of  the  farm — the  lowing  of 
cattle,  the  bleating  of  calves  at  the  cowpens,  the 
bleat  of  sheep  from  the  woods,  and  the  nicker 
of  horses  in  the  barn.  Through  it  all,  Critten- 
den  could  hear  the  nervous  thud  of  Raincrow's 
hoofs  announcing  rain — for  that  was  the  way 
the  horse  got  his  name,  being  as  black  as  a 
crow  and,  as  Bob  claimed,  always  knowing 
when  falling  weather  was  at  hand  and  speaking 
his  prophecy  by  stamping  in  his  stall.  He  could 
hear  Basil  noisily  making  his  way  to  the  barn. 
As  he  walked  through  the  garden  toward  the 
old  family  graveyard,  he  could  still  hear  the  boy, 
and  a  prescient  tithe  of  the  pain,  that  he  felt 
would  strike  him  in  full  some  day,  smote  him  so 
sharply  now  that  he  stopped  a  moment  to  listen, 
with  one  hand  quickly  raised  to  his  forehead. 
Basil  was  whistling — whistling  joyously.  Fore- 

25 


CRITTENDEN 

boding  touched  the  boy  like  the  brush  of  a  bird's 
wing,  and  death  and  sorrow  were  as  remote  as 
infinity  to  him.  At  the  barn-door  the  lad  called 
sharply: 

"Bob!" 

"Suh!"  answered  a  muffled  voice,  and  Bob 
emerged,  gray  with  oatdust. 

"I  want  my  buggy  to-night."     Bob  grinned. 

"Sidebar?" 

"Yes." 

"New  whip — new  harness — little  buggy  mare 
—reckon?" 

"I  want 'em  all" 

Bob  laughed  loudly.  "Oh,  I  know.  You 
gwine  to  see  Miss  Phyllis  dis  night,  sho — yes, 
Lawd!"  Bob  dodged  a  kick  from  the  toe  of 
the  boy's  boot — a  playful  kick  that  was  not 
meant  to  land — and  went  into  the  barn  and 
came  out  again. 

"  Yes,  an'  I  know  somewhur  else  you  gwine — 
you  gwine  to  de  war.  Oh,  I  know;  yes,  suh. 
Dere's  a  white  man  in  town  tryin'  to  git  niggers 
to  'list  wid  him,  an'  he's  got  a  nigger  sojer 
what  say  he's  a  officer  hisself;  yes,  mon,  a  cor- 
pril.  An'  dis  nigger's  jes  a-gwine  through  town 
drawin'  niggers  right  an  left.  He  talk  to  me, 
but  I  jes  laugh  at  him,  an'  say  I  gwine  wid  Ole 
Cap'n  ur  Young  Cap'n,  I  don't  keer  which. 
An'  lemme  tell  you,  Young  Capn',  ef  you  ur 
26 


CRITTENDEN 

Ole  Cap'n  doan  lemme  go  wid  you,  Pse  gwine 
wid  dat  nigger  corpril  an'  dat  white  man  what 
'long  to  a  nigger  regiment,  an'  I  know  you  don't 
want  me  to  bring  no  sech  disgrace  on  de  fambly 
dat  way — no,  suh.  He  axe  what  you  de  cap'n 
of,"  Bob  went  on,  aiming  at  two  birds  with  one 
stone  now,  "an'  I  say  you  de  cap'n  of  ever'body 
an'  ever'ting  dat  come  'long — dat's  what  I  say — • 
an'  he  be  cap'n  of  you  wid  all  yo'  unyform  and 
sich,  I  say,  if  you  jest  come  out  to  de  fahm — yes, 
mon,  dat  he  will  sho." 

The  boy  laughed  and  Bob  reiterated: 

"Oh,  Pse  gwine — Pse  gwine  wid  you — " 
Then  he  stopped  short.  The  turbaned  figure  of 
Aunt  Keziah  loomed  from  behind  the  wood-pile. 

"  What  dat  I  heah  'bout  you  gwine  to  de  wah, 
nigger,  what  dat  I  heah  ?" 

Bob  laughed — but  it  was  a  laugh  of  propitia 
tion. 

"Law,  mammy.  I  was  jes  projeckin'  wid 
Young  Cap'n." 

"  Fool  nigger,  doan  know  what  wah  is — doan 
lemme  heah  you  talk  no  more  'bout  gwine  to  de 
wah  ur  I  gwine  to  w'ar  you  out  wid  a  hickory — 
dat's  whut  Pll  do — now  you  min'."  She  turned 
on  Basil  then;  but  Basil  had  retreated,  and  his 
laugh  rang  from  the  darkening  yard.  She  cried 
after  him: 

"An'  doan  lemme  heah  you  puttin'  dis  fool 
27 


CRITTENDEN 

nigger  up  to  gittin'  hisself  killed  by  dem  Cubians 
neither;  no  suh!"  She  was  deadly  serious  now. 
"I  done  spanked  you  heap  o'  times,  an5  'tain't 
so  long  ago,  an'  you  ain'  too  big  yit;  no,  suh." 
The  old  woman's  wrath  was  rising  higher,  and 
Bob  darted  into  the  barn  before  she  could  turn 
back  again  to  him,  and  a  moment  later  darted 
his  head,  like  a  woodpecker,  out  again  to  see  if 
she  were  gone,  and  grinned  silently  after  her  as 
she  rolled  angrily  toward  the  house,  scolding 
both  Bob  and  Basil  to  herself  loudly. 

A  song  rose  from  the  cowpens  just  then. 
Full,  clear,  and  quivering,  it  seemed  suddenly 
to  still  everything  else  into  silence.  In  a  flash, 
Bob's  grin  settled  into  a  look  of  sullen  dejection, 
and,  with  his  ear  cocked  and  drinking  in  the 
song,  and  with  his  eye  on  the  corner  of  the  barn, 
he  waited.  From  the  cowpens  was  coming  a 
sturdy  negro  girl  with  a  bucket  of  foaming  milk 
in  each  hand  and  a  third  balanced  on  her  head, 
singing  with  all  the  strength  of  her  lungs.  In  a 
moment  she  passed  the  corner. 

"Molly— say,  Molly." 

The  song  stopped  short. 

"Say,  honey,  wait  a  minute — jes  a  minute, 
won't  ye  ?"  The  milkmaid  kept  straight  ahead, 
and  Bob's  honeyed  words  soured  suddenly. 

"  Go  on,  gal,  think  yo'self  mighty  fine,  don't 
ye?  Nem'  min'l" 


CRITTENDEN 

Molly's  nostrils  swelled  to  their  full  width, 
and,  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  she  began  again* 
"Go  on,  nigger,  but  you  jes  wait." 
Molly  sang  on: 

"Take  up  yo'  cross,  oh,  sinner-man." 

Before  he  knew  it,  Bob  gave  the  response  with 
great  unction: 

"Yes,  Lawd." 

Then  he  stopped  short. 

"  I  reckon  I  got  to  break  dat  gal's  head  some 
day.  Yessuh;  she  knows  whut  my  cross  is," 
and  then  he  started  slowly  after  her,  shaking  his 
head  and,  as  his  wont  was,  talking  to  himself. 

He  was  still  talking  to  himself  when  Basil 
came  out  to  the  stiles  after  supper  to  get  into 
his  buggy. 

"Young  Cap'n,  dat  gal  Molly  mighty  nigh 
pesterin'  de  life  out  o'  me.  I  done  tol'  her  I'se 
gwine  to  de  wah." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"De  fool  nigger — she  jes  laughed — she  jes 
laughed." 

The  boy,  too,  laughed,  as  he  gathered  the 
reins  and  the  mare  sprang  forward. 

"We'll  see— we'll  see." 

And  Bob  with  a  triumphant  snort  turned 
toward  Molly's  cabin. 

The  locust-trees  were  quiet  now  and  the  barn 
29 


CRITTENDEN 

was  still  except  for  the  occasional  stamp  of  a 
horse  in  his  stall  or  the  squeak  of  a  pig  that  was 
pushed  out  of  his  warm  place  by  a  stronger 
brother.  The  night  noises  were  strong  and 
clear — the  cricket  in  the  grass,  the  croaking 
frogs  from  the  pool,  the  whir  of  a  night-hawk's 
wings  along  the  edge  of  the  yard,  the  persistent 
wail  of  a  whip-poor-will  sitting  lengthwise  of  a 
willow  limb  over  the  meadow-branch,  the  occa 
sional  sleepy  caw  of  crows  from  their  roost  in 
the  woods  beyond,  the  bark  of  a  house-dog  at  a 
neighbour's  home  across  the  fields,  and,  further 
still,  the  fine  high  yell  of  a  fox-hunter  and  the 
faint  answering  yelp  of  a  hound. 

And  inside,  in  the  mother's  room,  the  curtain 
was  rising  on  a  tragedy  that  was  tearing  open 
the  wounds  of  that  other  war — the  tragedy  upon 
which  a  bloody  curtain  had  fallen  more  than 
thirty  years  before.  The  mother  listened  quietly, 
as  had  her  mother  before  her,  while  the  son 
spoke  quietly,  for  time  and  again  he  had  gone 
over  the  ground  to  himself,  ending  ever  with  the 
same  unalterable  resolve. 

There  had  been  a  Crittenden  in  every  war  of 
the  nation — down  to  the  two  Crittendens  who 
slept  side  by  side  in  the  old  graveyard  below  the 
garden. 

And  the  Crittenden — of  whom  he  had  spoken 
that  morning — the  gallant  Crittenden  who  led 

3° 


CRITTENDEN 

his  KentucKians  to  death  in  Cuba,  in  1851,  was 
his  father's  elder  brother.  And  again  he  re 
peated  the  dying  old  Confederate's  deathless 
words  with  which  he  had  thrilled  the  Legion 
that  morning — words  heard  by  her  own  ears  as 
well  as  his.  What  else  was  left  him  to  do — 
when  he  knew  what  those  three  brothers,  if  they 
were  alive,  would  have  him  do  ? 

And  there  were  other  untold  reasons,  hid  in 
the  core  of  his  own  heart,  faced  only  when  he 
was  alone,  and  faced  again,  that  night,  after  he 
had  left  his  mother  and  was  in  his  own  room 
and  looking  out  at  the  moonlight  and  the  big 
weeping  willow  that  drooped  over  the  one  white 
tomb  under  which  the  two  brothers,  who  had 
been  enemies  in  the  battle,  slept  side  by  side 
thus  in  peace.  So  far  he  had  followed  in  their 
footsteps,  since  the  one  part  that  he  was  fitted 
to  play  was  the  role  they  and  their  ancestors  had 
played  beyond  the  time  when  the  first  American 
among  them,  failing  to  rescue  his  king  from 
Carisbrooke  Castle,  set  sail  for  Virginia  on  the 
very  day  Charles  lost  his  royal  head.  But  for 
the  Civil  War,  Crittenden  would  have  played 
that  role  worthily  and  without  question  to  the 
end.  With  the  close  of  the  war,  however,  his 
birthright  was  gone — even  before  he  was  born — 
and  yet,  as  he  grew  to  manhood,  he  had  gone  on 
in  the  serene  and  lofty  way  of  his  father — there 

31 


CRITTENDEN 

was  nothing  else  he  could  do — playing  the  gen 
tleman  still,  though  with  each  year  the  audience 
grew  more  restless  and  the  other  and  lesser 
actors  in  the  drama  of  Southern  reconstruction 
more  and  more  resented  the  particular  claims  of 
the  star.  At  last,  came  with  a  shock  the  realiza 
tion  that  with  the  passing  of  the  war  his  occupa 
tion  had  forever  gone.  And  all  at  once,  out  on 
his  ancestral  farm  that  had  carried  its  name 
Canewood  down  from  pioneer  days;  that  had 
never  been  owned  by  a  white  man  who  was  not 
a  Crittenden;  that  was  isolated,  and  had  its 
slaves  and  the  children  of  those  slaves  still  as 
servants;  that  still  clung  rigidly  to  old  traditions 
— social,  agricultural,  and  patriarchal — out  there 
Crittenden  found  himself  one  day  alone.  His 
friends — even  the  boy,  his  brother — had  caught 
the  modern  trend  of  things  quicker  than  he,  and 
most  of  them  had  gone  to  work — some  to  law, 
some  as  clerks,  railroad  men,  merchants,  civil 
engineers;  some  to  mining  and  speculating  in 
the  State's  own  rich  mountains.  Of  course,  he 
had  studied  law — his  type  of  Southerner  always 
studies  law — and  he  tried  the  practice  of  it.  He 
had  too  much  self-confidence,  perhaps,  based  on 
his  own  brilliant  record  as  a  college  orator,  and 
he  never  got  over  the  humiliation  of  losing  his 
first  case,  being  handled  like  putty  by  a  small, 
black-eyed  youth  of  his  own  age,  who  had  come 

32 


CRITTENDEN 

from  nowhere  and  had  passed  up  through  a 
philanthropical  old  judge's  office  to  the  dignity, 
by  and  by,  of  a  license  of  his  own.  Losing  the 
suit,  through  some  absurd  little  technical  mis 
take,  Crittenden  not  only  declined  a  fee,  but 
paid  the  judgment  against  his  client  out  of  his 
own  pocket  and  went  home  with  a  wound  to  his 
foolish,  sensitive  pride  for  which  there  was  no 
quick  cure.  A  little  later,  he  wrent  to  the  moun 
tains,  when  those  wonderful  hills  first  began  to 
give  up  their  wealth  to  the  world;  but  the  pace 
was  too  swift,  competition  was  too  undignified 
and  greedy,  and  business  was  won  on  too  low  a 
plane.  After  a  year  or  two  of  rough  life,  which 
helped  him  more  than  he  knew,  until  long  after 
ward,  he  went  home.  Politics  he  had  not  yet 
tried,  and  politics  he  was  now  persuaded  to  try. 
He  made  a  brilliant  canvass,  but  another  ele 
ment  than  oratory  had  crept  in  as  a  new  factor 
in  political  success.  His  opponent,  Wharton, 
the  wretched  little  lawyer  who  had  bested  him 
once  before,  bested  him  now,  and  the  weight  of 
the  last  straw  fell  crushingly.  It  was  no  use. 
The  little  touch  of  magic  that  makes  success 
seemed  to  have  been  denied  him  at  birth,  and, 
therefore,  deterioration  began  to  set  in — the 
deterioration  that  comes  from  idleness,  from 
energy  that  gets  the  wrong  vent,  from  strong 
passions  that  a  definite  purpose  would  have 

33 


CRITTENDEN 

kept  under  control — and  the  worse  elements  of 
a  nature  that,  at  the  bottom,  was  true  and  fine, 
slowly  began  to  take  possession  of  him  as  weeds 
will  take  possession  of  an  abandoned  field. 

But  even  then  nobody  took  him  as  seriously 
as  he  took  himself.  So  that  while  he  fell  just 
short,  in  his  own  eyes,  of  everything  that  was 
worth  while;  of  doing  something  and  being 
something  worth  while;  believing  something 
that  made  the  next  world  worth  while;  or  gain 
ing  the  love  of  a  woman  that  would  have  made 
this  life  worth  while — in  the  eyes  of  his  own 
people  he  was  merely  sowing  his  wild  oats  after 
the  fashion  of  his  race,  and  would  settle  down, 
after  the  same  fashion,  by  and  by — that  was  the 
indulgent  summary  of  his  career  thus  far. 
He  had  been  a  brilliant  student  in  the  old  uni 
versity  and,  in  a  desultory  way,  he  was  yet.  He 
had  worried  his  professor  of  metaphysics  by 
puzzling  questions  and  keen  argument  until  that 
philosopher  was  glad  to  mark  him  highest  in  his 
class  and  let  him  go.  He  surprised  the  old 
lawyers  when  it  came  to  a  discussion  of  the 
pure  theory  of  law,  and,  on  the  one  occasion 
when  his  mother's  pastor  came  to  see  him,  he 
disturbed  that  good  man  no  little,  and  closed 
his  lips  against  further  censure  of  him  in  pulpit 
or  in  private.  So  that  all  that  was  said  against 
him  by  the  pious  was  that  he  did  not  go  to 

34 


CRITTENDEN 

church  as  he  should;  and  by  the  thoughtful, 
that  he  was  making  a  shameful  waste  of  the 
talents  that  the  Almighty  had  showered  so 
freely  down  upon  him.  And  so  without  suffer 
ing  greatly  in  public  estimation,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  the  ideals  of  Southern  life  were  chang 
ing  fast,  he  passed  into  the  old-young  period 
that  is  the  critical  time  in  the  lives  of  men  like 
him — when  he  thought  he  had  drunk  his  cup 
to  the  dregs;  had  run  the  gamut  of  human  ex 
perience;  that  nothing  was  left  to  his  future  but 
the  dull  repetition  of  his  past.  Only  those  who 
knew  him  best  had  not  given  up  hope  of  him, 
nor  had  he  really  given  up  hope  of  himself  as 
fully  as  he  thought.  The  truth  was,  he  never 
fell  far,  nor  for  long,  and  he  always  rose  with  the 
old  purpose  the  same,  even  if  it  stirred  him  each 
time  with  less  and  less  enthusiasm — and  always 
with  the  beacon-light  of  one  star  shining  from 
his  past,  even  though  each  time  it  shone  a  little 
more  dimly.  For  usually,  of  course,  there  is 
the  hand  of  a  woman  on  the  lever  that  prizes 
such  a  man's  life  upward,  and  when  Judith 
Page's  clasp  loosened  on  Crittenden,  the  castle 
that  the  lightest  touch  of  her  finger  raised  in  his 
imagination — that  he,  doubtless,  would  have 
reared  for  her  and  for  him,  in  fact,  fell  in  quite 
hopeless  ruins,  and  no  similar  shape  was  ever 
framed  for  him  above  its  ashes. 

35 


CRITTENDEN 

It  was  the  simplest  and  oldest  of  stories  be 
tween  the  two — a  story  that  began,  doubtless, 
with  the  beginning,  and  will  never  end  as  long 
as  two  men  and  one  woman,  or  two  women  and 
one  man  are  left  on  earth — the  story  of  the  love 
of  one  who  loves  another.  Only,  to  the  sufferers 
the  tragedy  is  always  as  fresh  as  a  knife-cut,  and 
forever  new. 

Judith  cared  for  nobody.  Crittenden  laughed 
and  pleaded,  stormed,  sulked,  and  upbraided, 
and  was  devoted  and  indifferent  for  years — like 
the  wilful,  passionate  youngster  that  he  was — • 
until  Judith  did  love  another — what  other,  Crit 
tenden  never  knew.  And  then  he  really  be 
lieved  that  he  must,  as  she  had  told  him  so 
often,  conquer  his  love  for  her.  And  he  did,  at 
a  fearful  cost  to  the  best  that  was  in  him — fool 
ishly,  but  consciously,  deliberately.  When  the 
reaction  came,  he  tried  to  reestablish  his  rela 
tions  to  a  world  that  held  no  Judith  Page.  Her 
absence  gave  him  help,  and  he  had  done  very 
well,  in  spite  of  an  occasional  relapse.  It  was 
a  relapse  that  had  sent  him  to  the  mountains, 
six  weeks  before,  and  he  had  emerged  with  a 
clear  eye,  a  clear  head,  steady  nerves,  and  with 
the  one  thing  that  he  had  always  lacked,  waiting 
for  him — a  purpose.  It  was  little  wonder,  then, 
that  the  first  ruddy  flash  across  a  sky  that  had 
been  sunny  with  peace  for  thirty  years  and  more 

36 


CRITTENDEN 

thrilled  him  like  an  electric  charge  from  the 
very  clouds.  The  next  best  thing  to  a  noble  life 
was  a  death  that  was  noble,  and  that  was  pos 
sible  to  any  man  in  war.  One  war  had  taken 
away— another  might  give  back  again;  and  his 
chance  was  come  at  last. 

It  was  midnight  now,  and  far  across  the  fields 
came  the  swift  faint  beat  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on 
the  turnpike.  A  moment  later  he  could  hear 
the  hum  of  wheels — it  was  his  little  brother 
coming  home;  nobody  had  a  horse  that  could 
go  like  that,  and  nobody  else  would  drive  that 
way  if  he  had.  Since  the  death  of  their  father, 
thirteen  years  after  the  war,  he  had  been  father 
to  the  boy,  and  time  and  again  he  had  wondered 
now  why  he  could  not  have  been  like  that 
youngster.  Life  was  an  open  book  to  the  boy 
—to  be  read  as  he  ran.  He  took  it  as  he  took 
his  daily  bread,  without  thought,  without  ques 
tion.  If  left  alone,  he  and  the  little  girl  whom 
he  had  gone  that  night  to  see  would  marry, 
settle  down,  and  go  hand  in  hand  into  old  age 
without  questioning  love,  life,  or  happiness. 
And  that  was  as  it  should  be;  and  would  to 
Heaven  he  had  been  born  to  tread  the  self-same 
way.  There  was  a  day  when  he  was  near  it; 
when  he  turned  the  same  fresh,  frank  face  fear 
lessly  to  the  world,  when  his  nature  was  as  un 
spoiled  and  as  clean,  his  hopes  as  high,  and  his 

37 


CRITTENDEN 

faith  as  child-like;  and  once  when  he  ran  across 
a  passage  in  Stevenson  in  which  that  gentle  stu 
dent  spoke  of  his  earlier  and  better  self  as  his 
"little  brother"  whom  he  loved  and  longed  for 
and  sought  persistently,  but  who  dropped  far 
ther  and  farther  behind  at  times,  until,  in  mo 
ments  of  darkness,  he  sometimes  feared  that  he 
might  lose  him  forever — Crittenden  had  clung 
to  the  phrase,  and  he  had  let  his  fancy  lead  him 
to  regard  this  boy  as  his  early  and  better  self — • 
better  far  than  he  had  ever  been — his  little 
brother,  in  a  double  sense,  who  drew  from  him, 
besides  the  love  of  brother  for  brother  and 
father  for  son,  a  tenderness  that  was  almost 
maternal. 

The  pike-gate  slammed  now  and  the  swift 
rush  of  wheels  over  the  bluegrass  turf  followed; 
the  barn-gate  cracked  sharply  on  the  night  air 
and  Crittenden  heard  him  singing,  in  the  boyish, 
untrained  tenor  that  is  so  common  in  the  South, 
one  of  the  old-fashioned  love-songs  that  are  still 
sung  with  perfect  sincerity  and  without  shame 
by  his  people: 

"  You'll  never  find  another  love  like  mine, 
"You'll  never  find  a  heart  that's  half  so  true." 

And  then  the  voice  was  muffled  suddenly.  A 
little  while  later  he  entered  the  yard-gate  and 
stopped  in  the  moonlight  and,  from  his  window, 

38 


CRITTENDEN 

Crittenden  looked  down  and  watched  him. 
The  boy  was  going  through  the  manual  of  arms 
with  his  buggy-whip,  at  the  command  of  an 
imaginary  officer,  whom,  erect  and  martial,  he 
was  apparently  looking  straight  in  the  eye. 
Plainly  he  was  a  private  now.  Suddenly  he 
sprang  forward  and  saluted;  he  was  volunteer 
ing  for  some  dangerous  duty;  and  then  he  walked 
on  toward  the  house.  Again  he  stopped.  Ap 
parently  he  had  been  promoted  now  for  gallant 
conduct,  for  he  waved  his  whip  and  called  out 
with  low,  sharp  sternness; 

"Steady,  now!  Ready;  fire!"  And  then 
swinging  his  hat  over  his  head: 

"  Double-quick — charge ! "  After  the  charge, 
he  sat  down  for  a  moment  on  the  stiles,  looking 
up  at  the  moon,  and  then  came  on  toward  the 
house,  singing  again: 

"  You'll  never  find  a  man  in  all  this  world 
Who'll  love  you  half  so  well  as  I  love  you." 

And  inside,  the  mother,  too,  was  listening; 
and  she  heard  the  elder  brother  call  the  boy 
into  his  room  and  the  door  close,  and  she  as 
well  knew  the  theme  of  their  talk  as  though  she 
could  hear  all  they  said.  Her  sons — even  the 
elder  one — did  not  realize  what  war  was;  the 
boy  looked  upon  it  as  a  frolic.  That  was  the 
way  her  two  brothers  had  regarded  the  old  war* 

39 


CRITTENDEN 

They  went  with  the  South,  of  course,  as  did  her 
father  and  her  sweetheart.  And  her  sweetheart 
was  the  only  one  who  came  back,  and  him  she 
married  the  third  month  after  the  surrender, 
when  he  was  so  sick  and  wounded  that  he  could 
hardly  stand.  Now  she  must  give  up  all  that 
was  left  for  the  North,  that  had  taken  nearly  all 
she  had. 

Was  it  all  to  come  again — the  same  long  days 
of  sorrow,  loneliness,  the  anxious  waiting,  wait 
ing,  waiting  to  hear  that  this  one  was  dead,  and 
that  this  one  was  wounded  or  sick  to  death — 
would  either  come  back  unharmed  ?  She  knew 
now  what  her  own  mother  must  have  suffered, 
and  what  it  must  have  cost  her  to  tell  her  sons 
what  she  had  told  hers  that  night.  Ah,  God, 
was  it  all  to  come  again  f 


QOME  days  later  a  bugle  blast  started  Critten- 
^  den  from  a  soldier's  cot,  when  the  flaps  of 
his  tent  were  yellow  with  the  rising  sun.  Peep 
ing  between  them,  he  saw  that  only  one  tent  was 
open.  Rivers,  as  acting-quartermaster,  had 
been  up  long  ago  and  gone.  That  blast  was 
meant  for  the  private  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
and  Crittenden  went  back  to  his  cot  and 
slept  on. 

The  day  before  he  had  swept  out  of  the  hills 
again — out  through  a  blossoming  storm  of  dog 
wood — but  this  time  southward  bound.  Inci 
dentally,  he  would  see  unveiled  these  statues 
that  Kentucky  was  going  to  dedicate  to  her 
Federal  and  Confederate  dead.  He  would  find 
his  father's  old  comrade — little  Jerry  Carter — 
and  secure  a  commission,  if  possible.  Mean 
while,  he  would  drill  with  Rivers's  regiment,  as 
a  soldier  of  the  line. 

At  sunset  he  swept  into  the  glory  of  a  Southern 
spring  and  the  hallowed  haze  of  an  old  battle 
field  where  certain  gallant  Americans  once 
fought  certain  other  gallant  Americans  fiercely 

41 


CRITTENDEN 

forward  and  back  over  some  six  thousand  acres 
of  creek-bottom  and  wooded  hills,  and  where 
Uncle  Sam  was  pitching  tents  for  his  war- 
children — children,  too — some  of  them — of  those 
old  enemies,  but  ready  to  fight  together  now, 
and  as  near  shoulder  to  shoulder  as  the  modern 
line  of  battle  will  allow. 

Rivers,  bronzed,  quick-tempered,  and  of 
superb  physique,  met  him  at  the  station. 

"  You'll  come  right  out  to  camp  with  me." 

The  town  was  thronged.  There  were  gray 
slouched  hats  everywhere  with  little  brass  crosses 
pinned  to  them — tiny  rifles,  sabres,  cannon — 
crosses  that  were  not  symbols  of  religion,  unless 
this  was  a  time  when  the  Master's  coming  meant 
the  sword.  Under  them  were  soldiers  with  big 
pistols  and  belts  of  big,  gleaming  cartridges — 
soldiers,  white  and  black,  everywhere — swagger 
ing,  ogling,  and  loud  of  voice,  but  all  good- 
natured,  orderly. 

Inside  the  hotel  the  lobby  was  full  of  officers 
in  uniform,  scanning  the  yellow  bulletin-boards, 
writing  letters,  chatting  in  groups;  gray  veterans 
of  horse,  foot,  and  artillery;  company  officers  in 
from  Western  service — quiet  young  men  with 
bronzed  faces  and  keen  eyes,  like  Rivers's — 
renewing  old  friendships  and  swapping  experi 
ences  on  the  plains;  subalterns  down  to  the  last 
graduating  class  from  West  Point  with  slim 

42 


CRITTENDEN 

waists,  fresh  faces,  and  nothing  to  swap  yet  but 
memories  of  the  old  school  on  the  Hudson.  In 
there  he  saw  Grafton  again  and  Lieutenant 
Sharpe,  of  the  Tenth  Colored  Cavalry,  whom  he 
had  seen  in  the  Bluegrass,  and  Rivers  intro 
duced  him.  He  was  surprised  that  Rivers, 
though  a  Southerner,  had  so  little  feeling  on  the 
question  of  negro  soldiers;  that  many  officers  in 
the  negro  regiments  were  Southern;  that  South 
erners  were  preferred  because  they  understood 
the  black  man,  and,  for  that  reason,  could  better 
handle  him.  Sharpe  presented  both  to  his 
father,  Colonel  Sharpe,  of  the  infantry,  who  was 
taking  credit  to  himself,  that,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  he  allowed  his  band  to  play  "  Dixie " 
in  camp  after  the  Southerners  in  Congress  had 
risen  up  and  voted  millions  for  the  national  de 
fence.  Colonel  Sharpe  spoke  with  some  bitter 
ness  and  Crittenden  wondered.  He  never 
dreamed  that  there  was  any  bitterness  on  the 
other  side — why  ?  How  could  a  victor  feel  bit 
terness  for  a  fallen  foe  ?  It  was  the  one  word 
he  heard  or  was  to  hear  about  the  old  war  from 
Federal  or  ex-Confederate.  Indeed,  he  mistook 
a  short,  stout,  careless  appointee,  Major  Billings, 
with  his  negro  servant,  his  Southern  mustache 
and  goatee  and  his  pompous  ways,  for  a  genuine 
Southerner,  and  the  Major,  though  from  Ver 
mont,  seemed  pleased. 

43 


CRITTENDEN 

But  it  was  to  the  soldier  outside  that  Crit- 
tenden's  heart  had  been  drawn,  for  it  was  his 
first  stirring  sight  of  the  regular  of  his  own  land, 
and  the  soldier  in  him  answered  at  once  with  a 
thrill.  Waiting  for  Rivers,  he  stood  in  the  door 
of  the  hotel,  watching  the  strong  men  pass,  and 
by  and  by  he  saw  three  coming  down  the  street, 
arm  in  arm.  On  the  edge  of  the  light,  the  mid 
dle  one,  a  low,  thick-set,  black-browed  fellow, 
pushed  his  comrades  away,  fell  drunkenly,  and 
slipped  loosely  to  the  street,  while  the  two  stood 
above  him  in  disgust.  One  of  them  was  a  mere 
boy  and  the  other  was  a  giant,  with  a  lean  face, 
so  like  Lincoln's  that  Crittenden  started  when 
the  boy  called  impatiently: 

"Pick  him  up,  Abe." 

The  tall  soldier  stooped,  and  with  one  hand 
lifted  the  drunken  man  as  lightly  as  though  he 
had  been  a  sack  of  wool,  and  the  two  caught 
him  under  the  arms  again.  As  they  came  on, 
both  suddenly  let  go;  the  middle  one  straight 
ened  sharply,  and  all  three  saluted.  Crittenden 
heard  Rivers's  voice  at  his  ear: 

"Report  for  this,  Reynolds." 

And  the  drunken  soldier  turned  and  rather 
sullenly  saluted  again. 

"You'll  come  right  out  to  camp  with  me," 
repeated  Rivers. 

And  now  out  at  the  camp,  next  morning,  a 
44 


CRITTENDEN 

dozen  trumpets  were  ringing  out  an  emphatic 
complaint  into  Crittenden's  sleeping  ears: 

"I  can't  git  'em  up, 
I  can't  git  'em  up, 

I  can't  git  'em  up  in  the  mornin', 
I  can't  git  'em  up, 
I  can't  git  'em  up, 

I  can't  git  'em  up  at  all. 
The  corporal's  worse  than  the  sergeant, 
The  sergeant's  worse  than  the  lieutenant, 
And  the  captain  is  worst  of  all." 

This  is  as  high  up,  apparently,  as  the  private 
dares  to  go,  unless  he  considers  the  somnolent 
iniquity  of  the  Colonel  quite  beyond  the  range 
of  the  bugle.  But  the  pathetic  appeal  was  too 
much  for  Crittenden,  and  he  got  up,  stepping 
into  a  fragrant  foot-bath  of  cold  dew  and  out  to 
a  dapple  gray  wash-basin  that  sat  on  three 
wooden  stakes  just  outside.  Sousing  his  head, 
he  sniffed  in  the  chill  air  and,  looking  below 
him,  took  in,  with  pure  mathematical  delight, 
the  working  unit  of  the  army  as  it  came  to  life. 
The  very  camp  was  the  symbol  of  order  and 
system:  a  low  hill,  rising  from  a  tiny  stream 
below  him  in  a  series  of  natural  terraces  to  the 
fringe  of  low  pines  behind  him,  and  on  these 
terraces  officers  and  men  sitting,  according  to 
rank;  the  white  tepees  of  the  privates  and  their 
tethered  horses — camped  in  column  of  troops — • 

45 


CRITTENDEN 

stretching  up  the  hill  toward  him;  on  the  first 
terrace  above  and  flanking  the  columns,  the 
old-fashioned  army  tents  of  company  officer  and 
subaltern  and  the  guidons  in  line — each  captain 
with  his  lieutenants  at  the  head  of  each  company 
street;  behind  them  and  on  the  next  terrace,  the 
majors  three — each  facing  the  centre  of  his 
squadron.  And  highest  on  top  of  the  hill,  and 
facing  the  centre  of  the  regiment,  the  slate- 
coloured  tent  of  the  Colonel,  commanding  every 
foot  of  the  camp. 

"Yes,"  said  a  voice  behind  him,  "and  you'll 
find  it  just  that  way  throughout  the  army." 

Crittenden  turned  in  surprise,  and  the  ubiqui 
tous  Grafton  went  on  as  though  the  little  trick 
of  thought-reading  were  too  unimportant  for 
notice. 

"Let's  go  down  and  take  a  look  at  things. 
This  is  my  last  day,"  Grafton  went  on,  "and 
I'm  out  early.  I  go  to  Tampa  to-morrow." 

All  the  day  before,  as  he  travelled,  Crittenden 
had  seen  the  station  thronged  with  eager  country 
men — that  must  have  been  the  way  it  was  in 
the  old  war,  he  thought — and  swarmed  the 
thicker  the  farther  he  went  south.  And  now,  as 
the  two  started  down  the  hill,  he  could  see  in  the 
dusty  road  that  ran  through  the  old  battle-field 
Southern  interest  and  sympathy  taking  visible 
shape.  For  a  hundred  miles  around,  the  human 


CRITTENDEN 

swarm  had  risen  from  the  earth  and  was  moving 
toward  him  on  wagon,  bicycle,  horseback, 
foot;  in  omnibus,  carriage,  cart;  in  barges  on 
wheels,  with  projecting  additions,  and  other 
land-craft  beyond  classification  or  description 
And  the  people — the  American  Southerners; 
rich  whites,  whites  well-to-do,  poor  white  trash; 
good  country  folks,  valley  farmers;  mountaineers 
—darkies,  and  the  motley  feminine  horde  that 
the  soldier  draws  the  world  over — all  moving 
along  the  road  as  far  as  he  could  see,  and  inter 
spersed  here  and  there  in  the  long,  low  cloud  of 
dust  with  a  clanking  troop  of  horse  or  a  red 
rumbling  battery — all  coming  to  see  the  soldiers 
— the  soldiers! 

And  the  darkies!  How  they  flocked  and 
stared  at  their  soldier-brethren  with  pathetic 
worship,  dumb  admiration,  and,  here  and  there, 
with  a  look  of  contemptuous  resentment  that  was 
most  curious.  And  how  those  dusky  sons  of 
Mars  were  drinking  deep  into  their  broad  nos 
trils  the  incense  wafted  to  them  from  hedge  and 
highway. 

For  a  moment  Grafton  stopped  still,  looking. 

"Great!" 

Below  the  Majors'  terrace  stood  an  old  ser 
geant,  with  a  gray  mustache  and  a  kind,  blue 
eye.  Each  horse  had  his  nose  in  a  mouth-bag 
and  was  contentedly  munching  corn,  while  a 

47 


CRITTENDEN 

trooper  affectionately  curried  him  from  tip  of 
ear  to  tip  of  tail. 

"Horse  ever  first  and  man  ever  afterward  is 
the  trooper's  law,"  said  Grafton. 

"I  suppose  you've  got  the  best  colonel  in  the 
army,"  he  added  to  the  soldier  and  with  a  wink 
at  Crittenden. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  guileless  old  Sergeant, 
quickfy,  and  with  perfect  seriousness.  "We 
have,  sir,  and  I'm  not  sayin'  a  wor-rd  against 
the  rest,  sir." 

The  Sergeant's  voice  was  as  kind  as  his  face, 
and  Grafton  soon  learned  that  he  was  called 
"the  Governor"  throughout  the  regiment — that 
he  was  a  Kentuckian  and  a  sharp-shooter.  He 
had  seen  twenty-seven  years  of  service,  and  his 
ambition  had  been  to  become  a  sergeant  of  ord 
nance.  He  passed  his  examination  finally,  but 
he  was  then  a  little  too  old.  That  almost  broke 
the  Sergeant's  heart,  but  the  hope  of  a  fight, 
now,  was  fast  healing  it. 

"I'm  from  Kentucky,  too,"  said  Crittenden. 
The  old  soldier  turned  quickly. 

"I  knew  you  were,  sir." 

This  was  too  much  for  Grafton.  "Now- 
ho w-on-earth — "  and  then  he  checked  himself 
-  it  was  not  his  business. 

"You're  a  Crittenden." 

"That's    right,"    laughed    the    Kentuckian, 


CRITTENDEN 

The  Sergeant  turned.  A  soldier  came  up  and 
asked  some  trifling  question,  with  a  searching 
look,  Grafton  observed,  at  Crittenden.  Every 
one  looked  at  that  man  twice,  thought  Grafton, 
and  he  looked  again  himself.  It  was  his  man 
ner,  his  bearing,  the  way  his  head  was  set  on 
his  shoulders,  the  plastic  force  of  his  striking 
face.  But  Crittenden  saw  only  that  the  Ser 
geant  answered  the  soldier  as  though  he  were 
talking  to  a  superior.  He  had  been  watching 
the  men  closely — they  might  be  his  comrades 
some  day — and,  already,  had  noticed,  with  in 
creasing  surprise,  the  character  of  the  men 
whom  he  saw  as  common  soldiers — young,  quiet, 
and  above  the  average  countryman  in  address 
and  intelligence — and  this  man's  face  surprised 
him  still  more,  as  did  his  bearing.  His  face  was 
dark,  his  eye  was  dark  and  penetrating  and  pas 
sionate;  his  mouth  was  reckless  and  weak,  his 
build  was  graceful,  and  his  voice  was  low  and 
even — the  voice  of  a  gentleman;  he  was  the  re 
fined  type  of  the  Western  gentleman-desperado, 
as  Crittenden  had  imagined  it  from  fiction  and 
hearsay.  As  the  soldier  turned  away,  the  old 
Sergeant  saved  him  the  question  he  was  about 
to  ask. 

"He  used  to  be  an  officer." 

"Who — how's  that  ?"  asked  Grafton,  scenting 
"a  story." 

49 


CRITTENDEN 

The  old  Sergeant  checked  himself  at  once,  and 
added  cautiously: 

"  He  was  a  lieutenant  in  this  regiment  and  he 
resigned.  He  just  got  back  to-day,  and  he  has 
enlisted  as  a  private  rather  than  risk  not  getting 
to  Cuba  at  all.  But,  of  course,  he'll  get  his 
commission  back  again."  The  Sergeant's  man 
ner  fooled  neither  Grafton  nor  Crittenden;  both 
respected  the  old  Sergeant's  unwillingness  to 
gossip  about  a  man  who  had  been  his  superior, 
and  Grafton  asked  no  more  questions. 

There  was  no  idleness  in  that  camp.  Each 
man  was  busy  within  and  without  the  conical- 
walled  tents  in  which  the  troopers  lie  like  the 
spokes  of  a  wheel,  with  heads  out  like  a  covey 
of  partridges.  Before  one  tent  sat  the  tall  sol 
dier — Abe — and  the  boy,  his  comrade,  whom 
Crittenden  had  seen  the  night  before. 

"Where's  Reynolds?"  asked  Crittenden, 
smiling. 

"Guard-house,"  said  the  Sergeant,  shaking 
his  head. 

Not  a  scrap  of  waste  matter  was  to  be  seen 
anywhere — not  a  piece  of  paper — not  the  faint 
est  odour  was  perceptible;  the  camp  was  as 
clean  as  a  Dutch  kitchen. 

"And  this  is  a  camp  of  cavalry,  mind  you," 
said  Grafton.  "Ten  minutes  after  they  have 
broken  camp,  you  won't  be  able  to  tell  that 

50 


CRITTENDEN 

there  has  been  a  man  or  horse  on  the  ground, 
except  for  the  fact  that  it  will  be  packed  down 
hard  in  places.  And  I  bet  you  that  in  a  month 
they  won't  have  three  men  in  the  hospital." 
The  old  Sergeant  nearly  blushed  with  pleasure. 

"An'  I've  got  the  best  captain,  too,  sir,"  he 
said,  as  they  turned  away,  and  Grafton  laughed. 

"That's  the  way  you'll  find  it  all  through  the 
army.  Each  colonel  and  each  captain  is  always 
the  best  to  the  soldier,  and,  by  the  way,"  he  went 
on,  "do  you  happen  to  know  about  this  little 
United  States  regular  army?" 

"Not  much." 

"I  thought  so.  Germany  knows  a  good  deal 
• — England,  France,  Prussia,  Russia — every 
body  knows  but  the  American  and  the  Spaniard. 
Just  look  at  these  men.  They're  young,  strong, 
intelligent — bully,  good  Americans.  It's  an 
army  of  picked  men — picked  for  heart,  body, 
and  brain.  Almost  each  man  is  an  athlete.  It 
is  the  finest  body  of  men  on  God  Almighty's 
earth  to-day,  and  everybody  on  earth  but  the 
American  and  the  Spaniard  knows  it.  And  how 
this  nation  has  treated  them.  Think  of  that 
miserable  Congress — "  Grafton  waved  his  hands 
in  impotent  rage  and  ceased — Rivers  was  calling 
them  from  the  top  of  the  hill. 

So  all  morning  Crittenden  watched  the  reg 
imental  unit  at  work.  He  took  a  sabre  lesson 

5' 


CRITTENDEN 

from  the  old  Sergeant.  He  visited  camps  of  in 
fantry  and  artillery  and,  late  that  afternoon,  he 
sat  on  a  little  wooded  hill,  where  stood  four 
draped,  ghost-like  statues — watching  these  units 
paint  pictures  on  a  bigger  canvas  below  him,  of 
the  army  at  work  as  a  whole. 

Every  green  interspace  below  was  thickly 
dotted  with  tents  and  rising  spirals  of  faint 
smoke;  every  little  plain  was  filled  with  soldiers, 
at  drill.  Behind  him  wheeled  cannon  and 
caisson  and  men  and  horses,  splashed  with 
prophetic  drops  of  red,  wheeling  at  a  gallop, 
halting,  unlimbering,  loading,  and  firing  im 
aginary  shells  at  imaginary  Spaniards — limber 
ing  and  off  with  a  flash  of  metal,  wheel-spoke 
and  crimson  trappings  at  a  gallop  again;  in  the 
plain  below  were  regiments  of  infantry,  deploy 
ing  in  skirmish-line,  advancing  by  rushes;  be 
yond  them  sharp-shooters  were  at  target  practice, 
and  little  bands  of  recruits  and  awkward  squads 
were  everywhere.  In  front,  rose  cloud  after 
cloud  of  dust,  and,  under  them,  surged  cloud 
after  cloud  of  troopers  at  mounted  drill,  all 
making  ready  for  the  soldier's  work — to  kill  with 
mercy  and  die  without  complaint.  What  a  pic 
ture — what  a  picture!  And  what  a  rich  earnest 
of  the  sleeping  might  of  the  nation  behind  it  all. 
Just  under  him  was  going  an  "escort  of  the 
standard,"  which  he  could  plainly  see.  Across 

52 


CRITTENDEN 

the  long  drill-ground  the  regiment — it  was 
Rivers's  regiment — stood,  a  solid  mass  of  silent, 
living  statues,  and  it  was  a  brave  sight  that  came 
now — that  flash  of  sabres  along  the  long  length 
of  the  drill-field,  like  one  leaping  horizontal 
flame.  It  was  a  regimental  acknowledgment  of 
the  honour  of  presentation  to  the  standard,  and 
Crittenden  raised  his  hat  gravely  in  recognition  of 
the  same  honour,  little  dreaming  that  he  was  soon 
to  follow  that  standard  up  a  certain  Cuban  hill. 

What  a  picture! 

There  the  nation  was  concentrating  its  power. 
Behind  him  that  nation  was  patching  up  its  one 
great  quarrel,  and  now  a  gray  phantom  stalked 
out  of  the  past  to  the  music  of  drum  and  fife, 
and  Crittenden  turned  sharply  to  see  a  little  body 
of  men,  in  queer  uniforms,  marching  through  a 
camp  of  regulars  toward  him.  They  were  old 
boys,  and  they  went  rather  slowly,  but  they 
stepped  jauntily  and,  in  their  natty  old-fashioned 
caps  and  old  gray  jackets  pointed  into  a  V-shape 
behind,  they  looked  jaunty  in  spite  of  their  years. 
Not  a  soldier  but  paused  to  look  at  these  men  in 
gray,  who  marched  thus  proudly  through  such  a 
stronghold  of  blue,  and  were  not  ashamed.  Not 
a  man  joked  or  laughed  or  smiled,  for  all  knew 
that  they  were  old  Confederates  in  butter-nut, 
and  once  fighting-men  indeed.  All  knew  that 
these  men  had  fought  battles  that  made  scouts 

53 


CRITTENDEN 

and  Indian  skirmishes  and  city  riots  and,  per 
haps,  any  battles  in  store  for  them  with  Spain 
but  play  by  contrast  for  the  tin  soldier,  upon 
whom  the  regular  smiles  with  such  mild  con 
tempt;  that  this  thin  column  had  seen  twice  the 
full  muster  of  the  seven  thousand  strong  en 
camped  there  melt  away  upon  that  very  battle 
field  in  a  single  day.  And  so  the  little  remnant 
of  gray  marched  through  an  atmosphere  of 
profound  respect,  and  on  through  a  mist  of 
memories  to  the  rocky  little  point  where  the 
Federal  Virginian  Thomas — "The  Rock  of 
Chickamauga" — stood  against  seventeen  fierce 
assaults  of  hill-swarming  demons  in  butter-nut, 
whose  desperate  valour  has  hardly  a  parallel  on 
earth,  unless  it  then  and  there  found  its  counter 
part  in  the  desperate  courage  of  the  brothers  in 
name  and  race  whose  lives  they  sought  that  day. 
They  were  bound  to  a  patriotic  love-feast  with 
their  old  enemies  in  blue — these  men  in  gray — 
to  hold  it  on  the  hill  around  the  four  bronze 
statues  that  Crittenden's  State  was  putting  up 
to  her  sons  who  fought  on  one  or  the  other  side 
on  that  one  battle-field,  and  Crittenden  felt  a 
clutch  at  his  heart  and  his  eyes  filled  when  the 
tattered  old  flag  of  the  stars  and  bars  trembled 
toward  him.  Under  its  folds  rode  the  spirit  of 
gallant  fraternity — a  little,  old  man  with  a 
grizzled  beard  and  with  stars  on  his  shoulders, 

54 


CRITTENDEN 

his  hands  folded  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle, 
his  eyes  lifted  dreamily  upward — they  called  him 
the  "bee-hunter,"  from  that  habit  of  his  in  the 
old  war — his  father's  old  comrade,  little  Jerry 
Carter.  That  was  the  man  Crittenden  had 
come  South  to  see.  Behind  came  a  carriage,  in 
which  sat  a  woman  in  widow's  weeds  and  a  tall 
girl  in  gray.  He  did  not  need  to  look  again  to 
see  that  it  was  Judith,  and,  motionless,  he  stood 
where  he  was  throughout  the  ceremony,  until  he 
saw  the  girl  lift  her  hand  and  the  veil  fall  away 
from  the  bronze  symbols  of  the  soldier  that  was 
in  her  fathers  and  in  his — stood  resolutely  still 
until  the  gray  figure  disappeared  and  the  vet 
erans,  bl  le  and  gray  intermingled,  marched 
away.  The  little  General  was  the  last  to  leave, 
and  he  rode  slowly,  as  if  overcome  with  memo 
ries.  Crittenden  took  off  his  hat  and,  while  he 
hesitated,  hardly  knowing  whether  to  make  him 
self  known  or  not,  the  little  man  caught  sight  of 
him  and  stopped  short. 

"Why — why,  bless  my  soul,  aren't  you  Tom 
Crittenden's  son?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Crittenden. 

"  I  knew  it.  Bless  me,  I  was  thinking  of  him 
just  that  moment — naturally  enough — and  you 
startled  me.  I  thought  it  was  Tom  himself." 
He  grasped  the  Kentuckian's  hand  warmly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  studying  his  face.     "  You  look 

55 


CRITTENDEN 

just  as  he  did  when  we  courted  and  camped  and 
fought  together."  The  tone  of  his  voice  moved 
Crittenden  deeply.  "And  you  are  going  to  the 
war — good — good!  Your  father  would  be  with 
me  right  now  if  he  were  alive.  Come  to  see  me 
right  away.  I  may  go  to  Tampa  any  day." 
And,  as  he  rode  away,  he  stopped  again. 

"Of  course  you  have  a  commission  in  the 
Legion." 

"No,  sir.  I  didn't  ask  for  one.  I  was  afraid 
the  Legion  might  not  get  to  Cuba."  The  Gen 
eral  smiled. 

"Well,  come  to  see  me" — he  smiled  again — 
" we'll  see — we'll  see!"  and  he  rode  on  with  his 
hands  still  folded  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle 
and  his  eyes  still  lifted,  dreamily,  upward. 

It  was  guard-mount  and  sunset  when  Crit 
tenden,  with  a  leaping  heart,  reached  Rivers's 
camp.  The  band  was  just  marching  out  with 
a  corps  of  trumpeters,  when  a  crash  of  martial 
music  came  across  the  hollow  from  the  camp  on 
the  next  low  hill,  followed  by  cheers,  which  ran 
along  the  road  and  were  swollen  into  a  mighty 
shouting  when  taken  up  by  the  camp  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill.  Through  the  smoke  and  faint  haze 
of  the  early  evening,  moved  a  column  of  infantry 
into  sight,  headed  by  a  band. 

"Tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 
The  boys  are  marching!" 

56 


CRITTENDEN 

Along  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  but  faintly 
seen  through  the  smoky  haze,  came  the  pendu 
lum-like  swing  of  rank  after  rank  of  sturdy  legs, 
with  guidons  fluttering  along  the  columns  and 
big,  ghostly  army  wagons  rumbling  behind. 
Up  started  the  band  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  with 
a  rousing  march,  and  up  started  every  band 
along  the  line,  and  through  madly  cheering 
soldiers  swung  the  regiment  on  its  way  to  Tampa 
— magic  word,  hope  of  every  chafing  soldier 
left  behind — Tampa,  the  point  of  embarkation 
for  the  little  island  where  waited  death  or 

glory- 
Rivers  was  deeply  dejected. 
"Don't  you  join  any  regiment  yet,"  he  said 
to  Crittenden;  "you  may  get  hung  up  here  all 
summer  till  the  war  is  over.     If  you  want  to  get 
into  the  fun  for  sure — wait.     Go  to  Tampa  and 
wait.     You  might  come  here,  or  go  there,  and 
drill  and  watch  for  your  chance."     Which  was 
the  conclusion  Crittenden  had  already  reached 
for  himself. 

The  sun  sank  rapidly  now.  Dusk  fell  swiftly, 
and  the  pines  began  their  nightly  dirge  for  the 
many  dead  who  died  under  them  five  and  thirty 
years  ago.  They  had  a  new  and  ominous  chant 
now  to  Crittenden — a  chant  of  premonition  for 
the  strong  men  about  him  who  were  soon  to 
follow  them.  Camp-fires  began  to  glow  out  of 

57 


CRITTENDEN 

the  darkness  far  and  near  over  the  old  battle 
field. 

Around  a  little  fire  on  top  of  the  hill,  and  in 
front  of  the  Colonel's  tent,  sat  the  Colonel,  with 
kind  Irish  face,  Irish  eye,  and  Irish  wit  of 
tongue.  Near  him  the  old  Indian-fighter,  Chaf- 
fee,  with  strong  brow,  deep  eyes,  long  jaw,  firm 
mouth,  strong  chin — the  long,  lean  face  of  a 
thirteenth  century  monk  who  was  quick  to  doff 
cowl  for  helmet.  While  they  told  war-stories, 
Crittenden  sat  in  silence  with  the  majors  three, 
and  Willings,  the  surgeon  (whom  he  was  to  know 
better  in  Cuba),  and  listened.  Every  now  and 
then  a  horse  would  loom  from  the  darkness,  and 
a  visiting  officer  would  swing  into  the  light,  and 
everybody  would  say: 

"How!" 

There  is  no  humour  in  that  monosyllable  of 
good  cheer  throughout  the  United  States  Army, 
and  with  Indian-like  solemnity  they  said  it,  tin 
cup  in  hand, 

"How!" 

Once  it  was  Lawton,  tall,  bronzed,  command 
ing,  taciturn — but  fluent  when  he  did  speak — 
or  Kent,  or  Sumner,  or  little  Jerry  Carter  him 
self.  And  once,  a  soldier  stepped  into  the  circle 
of  firelight,  his  heels  clicking  sharply  together; 
and  Crittenden  thought  an  uneasy  movement 
ran  around  the  group,  and  that  the  younger  men 

58 


CRITTENDEN 

looked  furtively  up  as  though  to  take  their  cue 
from  the  Colonel.  It  was  the  soldier  who  had 
been  an  officer  once.  The  Colonel  showed  not 
a  hint  of  consciousness,  nor  did  the  impassive 
soldier  to  anybody  but  Crittenden,  and  with  him 
it  may  have  been  imagination  that  made  him 
think  that  once,  when  the  soldier  let  his  eye 
flash  quite  around  the  group,  he  flushed  slightly 
when  he  met  Crittenden's  gaze.  Rivers  shrugged 
his  shoulders  when  Crittenden  asked  about  him 
later. 

"Black  sheep  .  .  .  well-educated,  brave, 
well-born  most  likely,  came  up  from  the  ranks, 
.  .  .  won  a  commission  as  sergeant  righting 
Indians,  but  always  in  trouble — gambling,  right 
ing,  and  so  forth.  Somebody  in  Washington 
got  him  a  lieutenancy,  and  while  the  commission 
was  on  its  way  to  him  out  West  he  got  into  a 
bar-room  brawl.  He  resigned  then,  and  left 
the  army.  He  was  gentleman  enough  to  do 
that.  Now  he's  back.  The  type  is  common  in 
the  army,  and  they  often  come  back.  I  expect 
he  has  decency  enough  to  want  to  get  killed. 
If  he  has,  maybe  he'll  come  out  a  captain 
yet." 

By  and  by  came  "tattoo,"  and  finally  far 
away  a  trumpet  sounded  "taps";  then  another 
and  another  and  another  still.  At  last,  when 
all  were  through,  "taps"  rose  once  more  out  of 

59 


CRITTENDEN 

the  darkness  to  the  left.  This  last  trumpeter 
had  waited — he  knew  his  theme  and  knew  his 
power.  The  rest  had  simply  given  the  com 
mand: 

''Lights  out!" 

Lights  out  of  the  soldier's  camp,  they  said. 
Lights  out  of  the  soldier's  life,  said  this  one, 
sadly;  and  out  of  Crittenden's  life  just  now 
something  that  once  was  dearer  than  life  it 
self. 

"Love,  good-night." 

Such  the  trumpet  meant  to  one  poet,  and  such 
it  meant  to  many  another  than  Crittenden, 
doubtless,  when  he  stretched  himself  on  his  cot 
— thinking  of  Judith  there  that  afternoon,  and 
seeing  her  hand  lift  to  pull  away  the  veil  from 
the  statues  again.  So  it  had  always  been  with 
him.  One  touch  of  her  hand  and  the  veil  that 
hid  his  better  self  parted,  and  that  self  stepped 
forth  victorious.  It  had  been  thickening,  fold 
on  fold,  a  long  while  now;  and  now,  he  thought 
sternly,  the  rending  must  be  done,  and  should 
be  done  with  his  own  hands.  And  then  he 
would  go  back  to  thinking  of  her  as  he  saw  her 
last  in  the  Bluegrass.  And  he  wondered  what 
that  last  look  and  smile  of  hers  could  mean. 
Later,  he  moved  in  his  sleep — dreaming  of  that 
brave  column  marching  for  Tampa — with  his 
mind's  eye  on  the  flag  at  the  head  of  the  regi- 

60 


CRITTENDEN 

ment,  and  a  thrill  about  his  heart  that  waked 
him.  And  he  remembered  that  it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  had  any  sensation  about  the 
flag  of  his  own  land.  But  it  had  come  to  him — 
awake  and  asleep — and  it  was  genuine. 


V! 

TT  was  mid-May  now,  and  the  leaves  were  full 
•*•  and  their  points  were  drooping  toward  the 
earth.  The  woods  were  musical  with  the  cries 
of  blackbirds  as  Crittenden  drove  toward  the 
pike-gate,  and  the  meadow  was  sweet  with  the 
love-calls  of  larks.  The  sun  was  fast  nearing 
the  zenith,  and  air  and  earth  were  lusty  with 
life.  Already  the  lane,  lined  with  locust-trees, 
brambles,  wild  rose-bushes,  and  young  elders, 
was  fragrant  with  the  promise  of  unborn  flowers, 
and  the  turnpike,  when  he  neared  town,  was 
soft  with  the  dust  of  many  a  hoof  and  wheel  that 
had  passed  over  it  toward  the  haze  of  smoke 
which  rose  over  the  first  recruiting  camp  in  the 
State  for  the  Spanish  war.  There  was  a  big 
crowd  in  the  lovely  woodland  over  which  hung 
the  haze,  and  the  music  of  horn  and  drum  came 
forth  to  Crittenden's  ears  even  that  far  away, 
and  Raincrow  raised  head  and  tail  and  quick 
ened  his  pace  proudly. 

For  a  week  he  had  drilled  at  Chickamauga. 
He  had  done  the  work  of  a  plain  soldier,  and  he 
liked  it — liked  his  temporary  comrades,  who 
were  frankly  men  to  men  with  him,  in  spite  of 


CRITTENDEN 

his  friendship  with  their  superiors  on  top  of  the 
hill.  To  the  big  soldier,  Abe  Long,  the  wag  of 
the  regiment,  he  had  been  drawn  with  genuine 
affection.  He  liked  Abe's  bunkie,  the  boy 
Sanders,  who  was  from  Maine,  while  Abe  was  a 
Westerner — the  lineal  descendant  in  frame,  cast 
of  mind,  and  character  of  the  border  backwoods 
man  of  the  Revolution.  Reynolds  was  a  bully, 
and  Crittenden  all  but  had  trouble  with  him; 
for  he  bullied  the  boy  Sanders  when  Abe  was 
not  around,  and  bullied  the  "rookies."  Abe 
seemed  to  have  little  use  for  him,  but  as  he  had 
saved  the  big  soldier's  life  once  in  an  Indian 
fight,  Abe  stuck  to  him,  in  consequence,  loyally. 
But  Blackford,  the  man  who  had  been  an  officer 
once,  had  interested  him  most;  perhaps,  because 
Blackford  showed  peculiar  friendliness  for  him 
at  once.  From  Washington,  Crittenden  had 
heard  not  a  word;  nor  from  General  Carter,  who 
had  left  Chickamauga  before  he  could  see  him 
again.  If,  within  two  days  more,  no  word  came, 
Crittenden  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to 
Tampa,  where  the  little  General  was,  and  where 
Rivers's  regiment  had  been  ordered,  and  drill 
again  and,  as  Rivers  advised,  await  his  chance. 
The  camp  was  like  some  great  picnic  or  po 
litical  barbecue,  with  the  smoking  trenches,  the 
burgoo,  and  the  central  feast  of  beef  and  mutton 
left  out.  Everywhere  country  folks  were  gath- 

63 


CRITTENDEN 

enng  up  fragments  of  lunch  on  the  thick  grass, 
or  strolling  past  the  tents  of  the  soldiers,  or  stop 
ping  before  the  Colonel's  pavilion  to  look  upon 
the  martial  young  gentlemen  who  composed  his 
staff,  their  beautiful  horses,  and  the  Colonel's 
beautiful  guests  from  the  river  city — the  big 
town  of  the  State.  Everywhere  were  young 
soldiers  in  twos  and  threes  keeping  step,  to  be 
sure,  but  with  eyes  anywhere  but  to  the  front; 
groups  lying  on  the  ground,  chewing  blades  of 
bluegrass,  watching  gretty  girls  pass,  and 
lounging  lazily;  groups  to  one  side,  but  by  no 
means  out  of  sight,  throwing  dice  or  playing 
"craps" — the  game  dear  to  the  darkey's  heart. 
On  the  outskirts  were  guards  to  gently  challenge 
the  visitor,  but  not  very  stern  sentinels  were 
they.  As  Crittenden  drove  in,  he  saw  one  pacing 
ing  a  shady  beat  with  a  girl  on  his  arm.  And 
later,  as  he  stood  by  his  buggy,  looking  around 
with  an  amused  sense  of  the  playful  contrast  it  all 
was  to  what  he  had  seen  at  Chickamauga,  he 
saw  another  sentinel  brought  to  a  sudden  halt 
by  a  surprised  exclamation  from  a  girl,  who  was 
being  shown  through  the  camp  by  a  strutting 
lieutenant.  The  sentinel  was  Basil  and  Phyllis 
was  the  girl. 

"Why,  isn't  that  Basil?"  she  asked  in  an 
amazed  tone — amazed  because  Basil  did  not 
speak  to  her,  but  grinned  silently. 


CRITTENDEN 

"Why,  it  is  Basil;  why — why,"  and  she  turned 
helplessly  from  private  to  officer  and  back  again. 
"  Can't  you  speak  to  me,  Basil  ?" 

Basil  grinned  again  sheepishly. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  answering  her,  but  looking 
straight  at  his  superior,  "  I  can  if  the  Lieutenant 
there  will  let  me."  Phyllis  was  indignant. 

"Let  you!"  she  said,  witheringly;  and  she 
turned  on  the  hapless  tyrant  at  her  side. 

"Now,  don't  you  go  putting  on  airs,  just  be 
cause  you  happen  to  have  been  in  the  Legion  a 
little  longer  than  some  people.  Of  course,  I'm 
going  to  speak  to  my  friends.  I  don't  care 
where  they  are  or  what  they  happen  to  be  at  the 
time,  or  who  happens  to  think  himself  over 
them." 

And  she  walked  up  to  the  helpless  sentinel 
with  her  hand  outstretched,  while  the  equally 
helpless  Lieutenant  got  very  red  indeed,  and 
Basil  shifted  his  gun  to  a  very  unmilitary  posi 
tion  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Let  me  see  your  gun,  Basil,"  she  added,  and 
the  boy  obediently  handed  it  over  to  her,  while 
the  little  Lieutenant  turned  redder  still. 

"You  go  to  the  guard-house  for  that,  Crit- 
tenden,"  he  said,  quietly.  "Don't  you  know 
you  oughtn't  to  give  up  your  gun  to  anybody 
except  your  commanding  officer?" 

"Does  he,  indeed?"  said  the  girl,  just  as 

65 


CRITTENDEN 

quietly.  "Well,  I'll  see  the  Colonel."  And 
Basil  saluted  soberly,  knowing  there  was  no 
guard-house  for  him  that  night. 

"Anyhow,"  she  added,  "I'm  the  commanding 
officer  here."  And  then  the  gallant  lieutenant 
saluted  too. 

"You  are,  indeed,"  he  said;  and  Phyllis 
turned  to  give  Basil  a  parting  smile. 

Crittenden  followed  them  to  the  Colonel's 
tent,  which  had  a  raised  floor  and  the  good 
cheer  of  cigar-boxes,  and  of  something  under  his 
cot  that  looked  like  a  champagne-basket;  and  he 
smiled  to  think  of  Chaffee's  Spartan-like  outfit 
at  Chickamauga.  Every  now  and  then  a  soldier 
would  come  up  with  a  complaint,  and  the  Col 
onel  would  attend  to  him  personally. 

It  was  plain  that  the  old  ex-Confederate  was 
the  father  of  the  regiment,  and  was  beloved  as 
such;  and  Crittenden  was  again  struck  with  the 
contrast  it  all  was  to  what  he  had  just  seen, 
knowing  well,  however,  that  the  chief  difference 
was  in  the  spirit  in  which  regular  and  volunteer 
approached  the  matter  in  hand.  With  one,  it 
was  a  business  pure  and  simple,  to  which  he 
was  trained.  With  the  other,  it  was  a  lark  at 
first,  but  business  it  soon  would  be,  and  a  dash 
ing  business  at  that.  There  was  the  same 
crowd  before  the  tent — Judith,  who  greeted  him 
with  gracious  frankness,  but  with  a  humorous 

66 


CRITTENDEN 

light  in  her  eye  that  set  him  again  to  wondering; 
and  Phyllis  and  Phyllis's  mother,  Mrs.  Stanton, 
who  no  sooner  saw  Crittenden  than  she  furtively 
looked  at  Judith  with  a  solicitude  that  was  ma 
ternal  and  significant. 

There  can  be  no  better  hot-bed  of  sentiment 
than  the  mood  of  man  and  woman  when  the 
man  is  going  to  war;  and  if  Mrs.  Stanton  had  not 
shaken  that  nugget  of  wisdom  from  her  memo 
ries  of  the  old  war,  she  would  have  known  it 
anyhow,  for  she  was  blessed  with  a  perennial 
sympathy  for  the  heart-troubles  of  the  young, 
and  she  was  as  quick  to  apply  a  remedy  to  the 
children  of  other  people  as  she  was  to  her  own, 
whom,  by  the  way,  she  cured,  one  by  one,  as 
they  grew  old  enough  to  love  and  suffer,  and 
learn  through  suffering  what  it  was  to  be  happy. 
And  how  other  mothers  wondered  how  it  was 
all  done!  In  truth,  her  method — if  she  had  a 
conscious  method — was  as  mysterious  and  as 
sure  as  is  the  way  of  nature;  and  one  could  no 
more  catch  her  nursing  a  budding  passion  here 
and  there  than  one  could  catch  nature  making 
the  bluegrass  grow.  Everybody  saw  the  result; 
nobody  saw  just  how  it  was  done.  That  after 
noon  an  instance  was  at  hand.  Judith  wanted 
to  go  home,  and  Mrs.  Stanton,  who  had  brought 
her  to  camp,  wanted  to  go  to  town.  Phyllis, 
too,  wanted  to  go  home,  and  her  wicked  little 


CRITTENDEN 

brother,  Walter,  who  had  brought  her,  climbed 
into  Basil's  brake  before  her  eyes,  and,  making 
a  face  at  her,  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 
Of  course,  neither  of  the  brothers  nor  the  two 
girls  knew  what  was  going  on,  but,  a  few  min 
utes  later,  there  was  Basil  pleading  with  Mrs. 
Stanton  to  let  him  take  Phyllis  home,  and  there 
was  Crittenden  politely  asking  the  privilege  of 
taking  Judith  into  his  buggy.  The  girl  looked 
embarrassed,  but  when  Mrs.  Stanton  made  a 
gracious  feint  of  giving  up  her  trip  to  town, 
Judith  even  more  graciously  declined  to  allow 
her,  and,  with  a  smile  to  Crittenden,  as  though 
he  were  a  conscious  partner  in  her  effort  to  save 
Mrs.  Stanton  trouble,  gave  him  her  hand  and 
was  helped  into  the  smart  trap,  with  its  top 
pressed  flat,  its  narrow  seat  and  a  high-headed, 
high-reined,  half-thoroughbred  restive  between 
the  slender  shafts;  and  a  moment  later,  smiled  a 
good-by  to  the  placid  lady,  who,  with  a  sigh 
that  was  half  an  envious  memory,  half  the  throb 
of  a  big,  kind  heart,  turned  to  her  own  carriage, 
assuring  herself  that  it  really  was  imperative 
for  her  to  drive  to  town,  if  for  no  other  reason 
than  to  see  that  her  mischievous  boy  got  out  of 
town  with  the  younger  Crittenden's  brake. 

Judith  and  Crittenden  were  out  of  the  push  of 
cart,  carriage,  wagon,  and  street-car  now,  and 
out  of  the  smoke  and  dust  of  the  town,  and 

68 


CRITTENDEN 

Crittenden  pulled  his  horse  down  to  a  slow  trot. 
The  air  was  clear  and  fragrant  and  restful.  So 
far,  the  two  had  spoken  scarcely  a  dozen  words. 
Crittenden  was  embarrassed — he  hardly  knew 
why — and  Judith  saw  it,  and  there  was  a  sup 
pressed  smile  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth  which 
Crittenden  did  not  see. 

"It's  too  bad." 

Crittenden  turned  suddenly. 

"It's  a  great  pleasure." 

"For  which  you  have  Mrs.  Stanton  to  thank. 
You  would  have  got  it  for  yourself  five — dear 
me;  is  it  possible  ? — five  years  ago." 

"Seven  years  ago,"  corrected  Crittenden, 
grimly.  "  I  was  more  self-indulgent  seven  years 
ago  than  I  am  now." 

"And  the  temptation  was  greater  then." 

The  smile  at  her  mouth  twitched  her  lips 
faintly,  and  still  Crittenden  did  not  see;  he  was 
too  serious,  and  he  kept  silent. 

The  clock-like  stroke  of  the  horse's  high- 
lifted  feet  came  sharply  out  on  the  hard  road. 
The  cushioned  springs  under  them  creaked 
softly  now  and  then,  and  the  hum  of  the  slender, 
glittering  spokes  was  noiseless  and  drowsy. 

"You  haven't  changed  much,"  said  Judith, 
"except  for  the  better." 

"You  haven't  changed  at  all.  You  couldn't 
—-for  better  or  worse." 


CRITTENDEN 

Judith  smiled  dreamily  and  her  eyes  were 
looking  backward — very  far  backward.  Sud 
denly  they  were  shot  with  mischief. 

"Why,  you  really  don't  seem  to — "  she  hesi 
tated — "to  like  me  any  more." 

"I  really  don't — "  Crittenden,  too,  hesitated 
— "don't  like  you  any  more — not  as  I  did." 

"You  wrote  me  that." 

"Yes." 

The  girl  gave  a  low  laugh.  How  often  he  had 
played  this  harmless  little  part.  But  there  was 
a  cool  self-possession  about  him  that  she  had 
never  seen  before.  She  had  come  home,  pre 
pared  to  be  very  nice  to  him,  and  she  was  find 
ing  it  easy. 

"And  you  never  answered,"  said  Crittenden. 

"No;  and  I  don't  know  why." 

The  birds  were  coming  from  shade  and  picket 
— for  midday  had  been  warm — into  the  fields 
and  along  the  hedges,  and  were  fluttering  from 
one  fence-rail  to  another  ahead  of  them  and 
piping  from  the  bushes  by  the  wayside  and  the 
top  of  young  weeds. 

"You  wrote  that  you  were — 'getting  over  it.' 
In  the  usual  way?" 

Crittenden  glanced  covertly  at  Judith's  face. 
A  mood  in  her  like  this  always  made  him  uneasy. 

"Not  in  the  usual  way;  I  don't  think  it's 
usual.  I  hope  not." 

70 


CRITTENDEN 

"How,  then?" 

"Oh,  pride,  absence — deterioration  and  other 
ihings." 

"Why,  then?" 

Judith's  head  was  leaning  backward,  her  eyes 
were  closed,  but  her  face  seemed  perfectly 
serious. 

"You  told  me  to  get  over  it." 

"Did  I?" 

Crittenden  did  not  deign  to  answer  this,  and 
Judith  was  silent  a  long  while.  Then  her  eyes 
opened;  but  they  were  looking  backward  again, 
and  she  might  have  been  talking  to  herself. 

"I'm  wondering,"  she  said,  "whether  any 
woman  ever  really  meant  that  when  she  said  it 
to  a  man  whom  she — "  Crittenden  turned 
quickly — "whom  she  liked,"  added  Judith  as 
though  she  had  not  seen  his  movement.  "She 
may  think  it  her  duty  to  say  it;  she  may  say  it 
because  it  is  her  duty;  but  in  her  heart,  I  suppose, 
she  wants  him  to  keep  on  loving  her  just  the 
same — if  she  likes  him — "  Judith  paused — 
"  even  more  than  a  very  little.  That's  very  self 
ish,  but  I'm  afraid  it's  true." 

And  Judith  sighed  helplessly. 

"I  think  you  made  it  little  enough  that  time," 
laughed  Crittenden.  "Are  you  still  afraid  of 
giving  me  too  much  hope?" 

"  I  am  afraid  of  nothing — now/* 

7* 


CRITTENDEN 

"Thank  you  You  were  ever  too  much  con 
cerned  about  me." 

"I  was.  Other  men  may  have  found  the 
fires  of  my  conscience  smouldering  sometimes, 
but  they  were  always  ablaze  whenever  you  came 
near.  I  liked  you  better  than  the  rest — better 
than  all- 

Crittenden's  heart  gave  a  faint  throb  and  he 
finished  the  sentence  for  her. 

"But  one." 

"But  one." 

And  that  one  had  been  unworthy,  and  Judith 
had  sent  him  adrift.  She  had  always  been 
frank  with  Crittenden.  That  much  he  knew 
and  no  more — not  even  the  man's  name;  but 
how  he  had  wondered  who  and  where  and  what 
manner  of  man  he  was!  And  how  he  had 
longed  to  see  him! 

They  were  passing  over  a  little  bridge  in  a 
hollow  where  a  cool  current  of  air  struck 
them  and  the  freshened  odour  of  moistening 
green  things  in  the  creek-bed — the  first  breath 
of  the  night  that  was  still  below  the  cloudy 
horizon. 

"Deterioration,"  said  Judith,  a/most  sharply. 
"What  did  you  mean  by  that?" 

Crittenden  hesitated,  and  she  added: 

"Go  on;  we  are  no  longer  children." 

"Oh,  it  was  nothing,  or  everything,  just  as 
72 


CRITTENDEN 

you  look  at  it.     I  made  a  discovery  soon  aftej 
you  went  away.     I  found  that  when  I  fell  short 
of  the  standard  you" — Crittenden  spoke  slowlj 
— "had  set  for  me,  I  got  at  least  mental  relic 
I  couldn't  think  of  you  until — until  I  had  R 
covered  myself  again." 

"So  you— 

"I  used  the  discovery." 

"That  was  weak." 

"It  was  deliberate." 

"Then  it  was  criminal." 

"Both,  if  you  wish;  but  credit  me  with  at 
least  the  strength  to  confess  and  the  grace  to 
be  ashamed.  But  I'm  beginning  all  over  again 
now — by  myself." 

He  was  flipping  at  one  shaft  with  the  cracker 
of  his  whip  and  not  looking  at  her,  and  Judith 
kept  silent;  but  she  was  watching  his  face. 

"It's  time,"  he  went  on,  with  slow  humour. 
"So  far,  I've  just  missed  being  what  I  should 
have  been;  doing  what  I  should  have  done — by 
a  hair's  breadth.  I  did  pretty  well  in  college, 
but  thereafter,  when  things  begin  to  count! 
Law  ?  I  never  got  over  the  humiliation  of  my 
first  ridiculous  failure.  Business  ?  I  made  a 
fortune  in  six  weeks,  lost  it  in  a  month,  and  was 
lucky  to  get  out  without  having  to  mortgage  a 
farm.  Politics  ?  Wharton  won  by  a  dozen 
votes.  I  just  missed  being  what  my  brother  is 

73 


CRITTENDEN 

now — I  missed  winning  you — everything!  Think 
of  it!  I  am  five  feet  eleven  and  three-quarters, 
when  I  should  have  been  full  six  feet.  I  am  the 
first  Crittenden  to  fall  under  the  line  in  a  cen 
tury.  I  have  been  told" — he  smiled — "that  I 
have  missed  being  handsome.  There  again  I 
believe  I  overthrow  family  tradition.  My  youth 
is  going — to  no  purpose,  so  far — and  it  looks  as 
though  I  were  going  to  miss  life  hereafter  as 
well  as  here,  since,  along  with  everything  else, 
I  have  just  about  missed  faith." 

He  was  quite  sincere  and  unsparing,  but  had 
Judith  been  ten  years  older,  she  would  have 
laughed  outright.  As  it  was,  she  grew  sober 
and  sympathetic  and,  like  a  woman,  began  to 
wonder,  for  the  millionth  time,  perhaps,  how 
far  she  had  been  to  blame. 

"The  comfort  I  have  is  that  I  have  been,  and 
still  am,  honest  with  myself.  I  haven't  done 
what  I  ought  not  and  then  tried  to  persuade  my 
self  that  it  was  right.  I  always  knew  it  was 
wrong,  and  I  did  it  anyhow.  And  the  hope  I 
have  is  that,  like  the  man  in  Browning's  poem, 
I  believe  I  always  try  to  get  up  again,  no  mat 
ter  how  often  I  stumble.  I  sha'n't  give  up  hope 
until  I  am  willing  to  lie  still.  And  I  guess, 
after  all — "  he  lifted  his  head  suddenly — "I 
haven't  missed  being  a  man." 

"And  a  gentleman,"  added  Judith  gently. 

74 


CRITTENDEN 

"According  to  the  old  standard — no."  Crit- 
tenden  paused. 

The  sound  of  buggy  wheels  and  a  fast-trotting 
horse  rose  behind  them.  Raincrow  lifted  his 
head  and  quickened  his  pace,  but  Crittenden 
pulled  him  in  as  Basil  and  Phyllis  swept  by. 
The  two  youngsters  were  in  high  spirits,  and  the 
boy  shook  his  whip  back  and  the  girl  her  hand 
kerchief — both  crying  something  which  neither 
Judith  nor  Crittenden  could  understand.  Far 
behind  was  the  sound  of  another  horse's  hoofs, 
and  Crittenden,  glancing  back,  saw  his  political 
enemy — Wharton — a  girl  by  his  side,  and  com 
ing  at  full  speed.  At  once  he  instinctively  gave 
half  the  road,  and  Raincrow,  knowing  what  that 
meant,  shot  out  his  feet  and  Crittenden  tightened 
the  reins,  not  to  check,  but  to  steady  him.  The 
head  of  the  horse  behind  he  could  just  see,  but 
he  went  on  talking  quietly. 

"I  love  that  boy,"  pointing  with  his  whip 
ahead.  "Do  you  remember  that  passage  I 
once  read  you  in  Stevenson  about  his  'little 
brother'  ?" 

Judith  nodded. 

The  horse  behind  was  creeping  up  now,  and 
his  open  nostrils  were  visible  past  the  light  hair 
blowing  about  Judith's  neck.  Crittenden  spoke 
one  quiet  word  to  his  own  horse,  and  Judith  saw 
the  leaders  of  his  wrist  begin  to  stand  out  as 

75 


CRITTENDEN 

Raincrow  settled  into  the  long  reach  that  had 
sent  his  sire  a  winner  under  many  a  string. 

"Well,  I  know  what  he  meant — that  boy  never 
will.  And  that  is  as  a  man  should  be.  The 
hope  of  the  race  isn't  in  this  buggy — it  has  gone 
on  before  with  Phyllis  and  Basil." 

Once  the  buggy  wheels  ran  within  an  inch  of 
a  rather  steep  bank,  and  straight  ahead  was  a 
short  line  of  broken  limestone  so  common  on 
bluegrass  turnpikes,  but  Judith  had  the  South 
ern  girl's  trust  and  courage,  and  seemed  to 
notice  the  reckless  drive  as  little  as  did  Crit- 
tenden,  who  made  the  wheels  straddle  the  stones, 
when  the  variation  of  an  inch  or  two  would  have 
lamed  his  horse  and  overturned  them. 

"Yes,  they  are  as  frank  as  birds  in  their  love- 
making,  and  they  will  marry  with  as  little  ques 
tion  as  birds  do  when  they  nest.  They  will 
have  a  house  full  of  children — I  have  heard  her 
mother  say  that  was  her  ambition  and  the  ambi 
tion  she  had  for  her  children;  and  they  will  live 
a  sane,  wholesome,  useful,  happy  life." 

The  buggy  behind  had  made  a  little  spurt, 
and  the  horses  were  almost  neck  and  neck. 
Wharton  looked  ugly,  and  the  black-eyed  girl 
with  fluffy  black  hair  was  looking  behind  Ju 
dith's  head  at  Crittenden  and  was  smiling. 
Not  once  had  Judith  turned  her  head,  even  to 
see  who  they  were.  Crittenden  hardly  knew 


"Go  on  I  "  said  Judith. 


/«.  \  ;  ••  <•'  ;•  ,.%*<*?  »     «    <      '•- 

.  -    -•..:.  •     - 


CRITTENDEN 

whether  she  was  conscious  of  the  race,  but  they 
were  approaching  her  gate  now  and  he  found 
out. 

"Shall  I  turn  in?"  he  asked. 

"Go  on,"  said  Judith. 

There  was  a  long,  low  hill  before  them,  and 
up  that  Crittenden  let  Raincrow  have  his  full 
speed  for  the  first  time.  The  panting  nostrils 
of  the  other  horse  fell  behind — out  of  sight — out 
of  hearing. 

"And  if  he  doesn't  get  back  from  the  war,  she 
will  mourn  for  him  sincerely  for  a  year  or  two 
and  then " 

"Marry  someone  else." 

"Why  not?" 

That  was  what  she  had  so  often  told  him  to 
do,  and  now  he  spoke  as  though  it  were  quite 
possible — even  for  him;  and  she  was  both  glad 
and  a  little  resentful. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  they  turned.  The  enemy 
was  trotting  leisurely  up  the  slope,  having  given 
up  the  race  earlier  than  they  knew.  Judith's 
face  was  flushed. 

"I  don't  think  you  are  so  very  old,"  she  said. 

Crittenden  laughed,  and  took  off  his  hat  very 
politely  when  they  met  the  buggy >  but  Wharton 
looked  surly.  The  girl  with  the  black  hair 
looked  sharply  at  Judith,  and  then  again  at 
Crittenden,  and  smiled.  She  must  have  cared 

77 


CRITTENDEN 

little  for  her  companion,  Judith  thought,  or 
something  for  Crittenden,  and  yet  she  knew 
that  most  women  smiled  at  Crittenden,  even 
when  they  did  not  know  him  very  well.  Still 
she  asked:  "And  the  other  things — you  meant 
other  women  ?" 

"Yes,  and  no." 

"Why  no?" 

"Because  I  have  deceived  nobody — not  even 
myself — and  Heaven  knows  I  tried  that  hard 
enough." 

"That  was  one?"  she  added,  smiling. 

"I  thought  you  knew  me  better  than  to  ask 
such  a  question." 

Again  Judith  smiled — scanning  him  closely. 

"No,  you  aren't  so  very  old — nor  world- 
weary,  after  all." 

"No?" 

"No.  And  you  have  strong  hands — and 
wrists.  And  your  eyes  are — "  she  seemed  al 
most  embarrassed — "are  the  eyes  of  a  good 
man,  in  spite  of  what  you  say  about  yourself; 
and  I  would  trust  them.  And  it  was  very  fine 
in  you  to  talk  as  you  did  when  we  were  tearing 
up  that  hill  a  moment  ago." 

Crittenden  turned  with  a  start  of  surprise. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  with  unaffected  carelessness. 
"You  didn't  seem  to  be  very  nervous." 

"I  trusted  you." 

78 


CRITTENDEN 

Crittenden  had  stopped  to  pull  the  self-open 
ing  gate,  and  he  drove  almost  at  a  slow  walk 
through  the  pasture  toward  Judith's  home. 
The  sun  was  reddening  through  the  trees  now. 
The  whole  earth  was  moist  and  fragrant,  and 
the  larks  were  singing  their  last  songs  for  that 
happy  day.  Judith  was  quite  serious  now. 

"Do  you  know,  I  was  glad  to  hear  you  say 
that  you  had  got  over  your  old  feeling  for  me. 
I  feel  so  relieved.  I  have  always  felt  so  respon 
sible  for  your  happiness,  but  I  don't  now,  and  it 
is  such  a  relief.  Now  you  will  go  ahead  and 
marry  some  lovely  girl  and  you  will  be  happy 
and  I  shall  be  happier — seeing  it  and  knowing 


it." 


Crittenden  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  "something  seems  to  have 
gone  out  of  me,  never  to  come  back." 

There  was  nobody  in  sight  to  open  the  yard 
gate,  and  Crittenden  drove  to  the  stiles,  where 
he  helped  Judith  out  and  climbed  back  into  his 


Judith  turned  in  surprise.  "Aren't  you  com 
ing  in  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't  time." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have." 

A  negro  boy  was  running  from  the  kitchen. 

"Hitch  Mr.  Crittenden's  horse,"  she  said,  and 
Crittenden  climbed  out  obediently  and  followed 

79 


CRITTENDEN 

her  to  the  porch,  but  she  did  not  sit  down  out 
side.  She  went  on  into  the  parlour  and  threw 
open  the  window  to  let  the  last  sunlight  in,  and 
sat  by  it  looking  at  the  west. 

For  a  moment  Crittenden  watched  her.  He 
never  realized  before  how  much  simple  phys 
ical  beauty  she  had,  nor  did  he  realize  the  sig 
nificance  of  the  fact  that  never  until  now  had  he 
observed  it.  She  had  been  a  spirit  before;  now 
she  was  a  woman  as  well.  But  he  did  note 
that  if  he  could  have  learned  only  from  Judith, 
he  would  never  have  known  that  he  even  had 
wrists  or  eyes  antil  that  day;  and  yet  he  was 
curiously  unstirred  by  the  subtle  change  in  her. 
He  was  busied  with  his  own  memories. 

"And  I  know  it  can  never  come  back,"  he 
said,  and  he  went  on  thinking  as  he  looked  at 
her.  "  I  wonder  if  you  can  know  what  it  is  to 
have  somebody  such  a  part  of  your  life  that  you 
never  hear  a  noble  strain  of  music,  never  read  a 
noble  line  of  poetry,  never  catch  a  high  mood 
from  nature,  nor  from  your  own  best  thoughts 
—that  you  do  not  imagine  her  by  your  side  to 
share  your  pleasure  in  it  all;  that  you  make  no 
effort  to  better  yourself  or  help  others;  that  you 
do  nothing  of  which  she  could  approve,  that  you 
are  not  thinking  of  her — that  really  she  is  not 
the  inspiration  of  it  all.  That  doesn't  come  but 
once.  Think  of  having  somebody  so  linked 

80 


CRITTENDEN 

with  your  life,  with  what  is  highest  and  best  in 
you,  that,  when  the  hour  of  temptation  comes 
and  overcomes,  you  are  not  able  to  think  of  her 
through  very  shame.  I  wonder  if  he  loved  you 
that  way.  I  wonder  if  you  know  what  such 
love  is." 

"  It  never  comes  but  once,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
tone,  that  made  Judith  turn  suddenly.  Her 
eyes  looked  as  if  they  were  not  far  from  tears. 

A  tiny  star  showed  in  the  pink  glow  over  the 
west — 

"Starlight,  star  bright!" 

"Think  of  it.  For  ten  years  I  never  saw  the 
first  star  without  making  the  same  wish  for  you 
and  me.  Why,"  he  went  on,  and  stopped  sud 
denly  with  a  little  shame  at  making  the  confes 
sion  even  to  himself,  and  at  the  same  time  with 
an  impersonal  wonder  that  such  a  thing  could 
be,  "  I  used  to  pray  for  you  always — when  I  said 
my  prayers — actually.  And  sometimes  even 
now,  when  I'm  pretty  hopeless  and  helpless  and 
moved  by  some  memory,  the  old  prayer  comes 
back  unconsciously  and  I  find  myself  repeating 
your  name." 

For  the  moment  he  spoke  as  though  not  only 
that  old  love,  but  she  who  had  caused  it,  were 
dead,  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  made  her  shiver. 

And  the  suffering  he  used  to  get — the  suffering 
from  trifles — the  foolish  suffering  from  silly  trifles ! 

81 


CRITTENDEN 

He  turned  now,  for  he  heard  Judith  walking 
toward  him.  She  was  looking  him  straight  in 
the  eyes  and  was  smiling  strangely. 

"I'm  going  to  make  you  love  me  as  you  used 
to  love  me." 

Her  lips  were  left  half  parted  from  the  whisper, 
and  he  could  have  stooped  and  kissed  her — 
something  that  never  in  his  life  had  he  done — he 
knew  that — but  the  old  reverence  came  back 
from  the  past  to  forbid  him,  and  he  merely 
looked  down  into  her  eyes,  flushing  a  little. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  gently.  "And  I  think  you 
are  just  tall  enough." 

In  a  flash  her  mood  changed,  and  she  drew 
his  head  down  until  she  could  just  touch  his 
forehead  with  her  lips.  It  was  a  sweet  bit  of 
motherliness — no  more — and  Crittenden  under 
stood  and  was  grateful. 

"Go  home  now,"  she  said. 


VII 

A  T  Tampa — the  pomp  and  circumstance  of 
*^  war. 

A  gigantic  hotel,  brilliant  with  lights,  music, 
flowers,  women;  halls  and  corridors  filled  with 
bustling  officers,  uniformed  from  empty  straps 
to  stars;  volunteer  and  regular — easily  distin 
guished  by  the  ease  of  one  and  the  new  and  con 
scious  erectness  of  the  other;  adjutants,  million 
aire  aids,  civilian  inspectors;  gorgeous  attaches 
— English,  German,  Swedish,  Russian,  Prussian, 
Japanese — each  wondrous  to  the  dazzled  repub 
lican  eye;  Cubans  with  cigarettes,  Cubans — lit 
tle  and  big,  warlike,  with  the  tail  of  the  dark  eye 
ever  womanward,  brave  with  machetes;  on  the 
divans  Cuban  senoritas — refugees  at  Tampa — • 
dark-eyed,  of  course,  languid  of  manner,  to  be 
sure,  and  with  the  eloquent  fan,  ever  present, 
omnipotent — shutting  and  closing,  shutting  and 
closing,  like  the  wings  of  a  gigantic  butterfly; 
adventurers,  adventuresses;  artists,  photogra 
phers;  correspondents  by  the  score — female  cor 
respondents;  story  writers,  novelists,  real  war 
correspondents,  and  real  draughtsmen — artists, 

83 


CRITTENDEN 

indeed;  and  a  host  of  lesser  men  with  spurs  yet 
to  win — all  crowding  the  hotel  day  and  night, 
night  and  day. 

And  outside,  to  the  sea — camped  in  fine  white 
sand  dust,  under  thick  stars  and  a  hot  sun — 
soldiers,  soldiers  everywhere,  lounging  through 
the  streets  and  the  railway  stations,  overrunning 
the  suburbs;  drilling — horseback  and  on  foot — • 
through  clouds  of  sand;  drilling  at  skirmish  over 
burnt  sedge-grass  and  stunted  and  charred  pine 
woods;  riding  horses  into  the  sea,  and  plunging 
in  themselves  like  truant  school-boys.  In  the 
bay  a  fleet  of  waiting  transports,  and  all  over 
dock,  camp,  town,  and  hotel  an  atmosphere  of 
fierce  unrest  and  of  eager  longing  to  fill  those 
wooden  hulks,  rising  and  falling  with  such 
maddening  patience  on  the  tide,  and  to  be  away. 
All  the  time,  meanwhile,  soldiers  coming  in — 
more  and  more  soldiers — in  freight-box,  day- 
coach,  and  palace-car. 

That  night,  in  the  hotel,  Grafton  and  Crit- 
tenden  watched  the  crowd  from  a  divan  of  red 
plush,  Grafton  chatting  incessantly.  Around 
them  moved  and  sat  the  women  of  the  "  House 
of  the  Hundred  Thousand" — officers'  wives  and 
daughters  and  sisters  and  sweethearts  and  army 
widows — claiming  rank  and  giving  it  more  or 
less  consciously,  according  to  the  rank  of  the 
man  whom  they  represented.  The  big  man 


CRITTENDEN 

with  the  monocle  and  the  suit  of  towering 
white  from  foot  to  crown  was  the  English 
naval  attache.  He  stalked  through  the  hotel 
as  though  he  had  the  British  Empire  at  his 
back. 

"And  he  has,  too,"  said  Grafton.  "You 
ought  to  see  him  go  down  the  steps  to  the  cafe. 
The  door  is  too  low  for  him.  Other  tall  people 
bend  forward — he  always  rears  back." 

And  the  picturesque  little  fellow  with  the 
helmet  was  the  English  military  attache.  Crit- 
tenden  had  seen  him  at  Chickamauga,  and 
Grafton  said  they  would  hear  of  him  in  Cuba. 
The  Prussian  was  handsome,  and  a  Count. 
The  big,  boyish  blond  was  a  Russian,  and  a 
Prince,  as  was  the  quiet,  modest,  little  Japanese 
— a  mighty  warrior  in  his  own  country.  And 
the  Swede,  the  polite,  the  exquisite! 

"He  wears  a  mustache  guard.  I  offered  him 
a  cigar.  He  saluted:  'Thank  you/  he  said. 
'Nevare  I  schmoke.'" 

"They  are  the  pets  of  the  expedition,"  Graf- 
ton  went  on,  "they  and  that  war-like  group  of 
correspondents  over  there.  They'll  go  down  on 
the  flag-ship,  while  we  nobodies  will  herd  to 
gether  on  one  boat.  But  we'll  all  be  on  the 
same  footing  when  we  get  there." 

Just  then  a  big  man,  who  was  sitting  on  the 
next  divan  twisting  his  mustache  and  talking 

85 


CRITTENDEN 

chiefly  with  his  hands,  rolled  up  and  called 
Grafton. 

"Huh!"  he  said. 

"Huh!"  mimicked  Grafton. 

"You  don't  know  much  about  the  army." 

"Six  weeks  ago  I  couldn't  tell  a  doughboy 
officer  from  a  cavalryman  by  the  stripe  down  his 
legs." 

The  big  man  smiled  with  infinite  pity  and 
tolerance. 

"Therefore,"  said  Grafton,  "I  shall  not  pass 
judgment,  deliver  expert  military  opinions,  and 
decide  how  the  campaign  ought  to  be  conducted 
— well,  maybe  for  some  days  yet." 

"You've  got  to.  You  must  have  a  policy — 
a  Policy.  I'll  give  you  one." 

And  he  began— favoring  monosyllables,  dashes, 
exclamation  points,  pauses  for  pantomime,  In 
dian  sign  language,  and  heys,  huhs,  and  humphs 
that  were  intended  to  fill  out  sentences  and 
round  up  elaborate  argument. 

"There  is  a  lot  any  damn  fool  can  say,  of 
course,  hey  ?  But  you  mustn't  say  it,  huh  ? 
Give  'em  hell  afterward."  (Pantomime.)  "That's 
right,  ain't  it  ?  Understand  ?  Regular  army  all 
right."  (Sign  language.)  "These  damn  fools 
outside — volunteers,  politicians,  hey  ?  Had  best 
army  in  the  world  at  the  close  of  the  old  war,  see  r 
Best  equipped,  you  understand,  huh  ?  Con- 

86 


CRITTENDEN 

gress"  (violent  Indian  sign  language)  "wanted 
to  squash  it — to  squash  it — that's  right,  you 
understand,  huh  ?  Cut  it  down — cut  it  down, 
see?  Illustrate:  Wanted  18,000  mules  for  this 
push,  got  2,000,  see  ?  Same  principle  all 
through;  see?  That's  right!  No  good  to  say 
anything  now — people  think  you  complain  of 
the  regular  army,  huh  ?  Mustn't  say  anything 
now — give  'em  hell  afterward — understand?" 
(More  sign  language.)  "Hell  afterward.  All 
right  now,  got  your  policy,  go  ahead." 

Grafton  nodded  basely,  and  without  a  smile: 
"Thanks,  old  man — thanks.  It's  very  lucid." 
A  little  later  Crittenden  saw  the  stout  civilian, 
Major  Billings,  fairly  puffing  with  pride,  excite 
ment,  and  a  fine  uniform  of  khaki,  whom  he 
had  met  at  Chickamauga;  and  Willings,  the  sur 
geon;  and  Chaffee,  now  a  brigadier;  and  Lawton, 
soon  to  command  a  division;  and,  finally,  little 
Jerry  Carter,  quiet,  unassuming,  dreamy,  slight, 
old,  but  active,  and  tough  as  hickory.  The 
little  general  greeted  Crittenden  like  a  son. 

"I  was  sorry  not  to  see  you  again  at  Chick 
amauga,  but  I  started  here  next  day.  I  have 
just  written  you  that  there  was  a  place  on  my 
staff  for  you  or  your  brother — or  for  any  son  of 
your  father  and  my  friend.  I'll  write  to  Wash 
ington  for  you  to-night,  and  you  can  report  for 
duty  whenever  you  please." 


CRITTENDEN 

The  little  man  made  the  astounding  proposi 
tion  as  calmly  as  though  he  were  asking  the 
Kentuckian  to  a  lunch  of  bacon  and  hardtack, 
and  Crittenden  flushed  with  gratitude  and  his 
heart  leaped — his  going  was  sure  now.  Before 
he  could  stammer  out  his  thanks,  the  general 
was  gone.  Just  then  Rivers,  who,  to  his  great 
joy,  had  got  at  least  that  far,  sat  down  by  him. 
He  was  much  depressed.  His  regiment  was 
going,  but  two  companies  would  be  left  behind. 
His  colonel  talked  about  sending  him  back  to 
Kentucky  to  bring  down  some  horses,  and  he 
was  afraid  to  go. 

"To  think  of  being  in  the  army  as  long  as  I 
have  been,  just  for  this  fight.  And  to  think  of 
being  left  here  in  this  hell-hole  all  summer,  and 
missing  all  the  fun  in  Cuba,  not  to  speak  of  the 
glory  and  the  game.  We  haven't  had  a  war  for 
so  long  that  glory  will  come  easy  now,  and  any 
body  who  does  anything  will  be  promoted.  But 
it's  missing  the  fight — the  fight — that  worries 
me,"  and  Rivers  shook  his  head  from  side  to 
side  dejectedly.  "If  my  company  goes,  I'm 
all  right;  but  if  it  doesn't,  there  is  no  chance  for 
me  if  I  go  away.  I  shall  lose  my  last  chance  of 
slipping  in  somewhere.  I  swear  I'd  rather  go 
as  a  private  than  not  at  all." 

This  idea  gave  Crittenden  a  start,  and  made 
him  on  the  sudden  very  thoughtful. 

88 


CRITTENDEN 

"Can  you  get  me  in  as  a  private  at  the  last 
minute?"  he  asked  presently. 

"Yes,"  said  Rivers,  quickly,  "and  I'll  tele 
graph  you  in  plenty  of  time,  so  that  you  can  get 
back." 

Crittenden  smiled,  for  Rivers's  plan  was  plain, 
but  he  was  thinking  of  a  plan  of  his  own. 

Meanwhile,  he  drilled  as  a  private  each  day. 
He  was  ignorant  of  the  Krag-Jorgensen,  and  at 
Chickamauga  he  had  made  such  a  laughable 
exhibition  of  himself  that  the  old  Sergeant  took 
him  off  alone  one  day,  and  when  they  came  back 
the  Sergeant  was  observed  to  be  smiling  broadly. 
At  the  first  target  practice  thereafter,  Crittenden 
stood  among  the  first  men  of  the  company,  and 
the  captain  took  mental  note  of  him  as  a  sharp 
shooter  to  be  remembered  when  they  got  to 
Cuba.  With  the  drill  he  had  little  trouble- 
being  a  natural-born  horseman — so  one  day, 
when  a  trooper  was  ill,  he  was  allowed  to  take 
the  sick  soldier's  place  and  drill  with  the  regi 
ment.  That  day  his  trouble  with  Reynolds 
came.  All  the  soldiers  were  free  and  easy  of 
speech  and  rather  reckless  with  epithets,  and, 
knowing  how  little  was  meant,  Crittenden 
merely  remonstrated  with  the  bully  and  smil 
ingly  asked  him  to  desist. 

"Suppose  I  don't?" 

Crittenden  smiled  again  and  answered  noth- 


CRITTENDEN 

ing,  and  Reynolds  mistook  his  silence  for  timid 
ity.  At  right  wheel,  a  little  later,  Crittenden 
squeezed  the  bully's  leg,  and  Reynolds  cursed 
him.  He  might  have  passed  that  with  a  last 
warning,  but,  as  they  wheeled  again,  he  saw 
Reynolds  kick  Sanders  so  violently  that  the 
boy's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  went  straight 
for  the  soldier  as  soon  as  the  drill  was  over. 

"  Put  up  your  guard." 

"Aw,  go  to " 

The  word  was  checked  at  his  lips  by  Crit- 
tenden's  fist.  In  a  rage,  Reynolds  threw  his 
hand  behind  him,  as  though  he  would  pull  his 
revolver,  but  his  wrist  was  caught  by  sinewy 
fingers  from  behind.  It  was  Blackford,  smiling 
into  his  purple  face. 

"  Hold  on ! "  he  said, "  save  that  for  a  Spaniard." 

At  once,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  men  led 
the  way  behind  the  tents,  and  made  a  ring — 
Blackford,  without  a  word,  acting  as  Critten- 
den's  second.  Reynolds  was  the  champion 
bruiser  of  the  regiment  and  a  boxer  of  no  mean 
skill,  and  Blackford  looked  anxious. 

"Worry  him,  and  he'll  lose  his  head.  Don't 
try  to  do  him  up  too  quickly." 

Reynolds  was  coarse,  disdainful,  and  trium 
phant,  but  he  did  not  look  quite  so  confident  when 
Crittenden  stripped  and  showed  a  white  body, 
closely  'ointed  at  Boulder  and  elbow  and  at 

go 


CRITTENDEN 

knee  and  thigh,  and  closely  knit  with  steel-like 
tendons.  The  long  muscles  of  his  back  slipped 
like  eels  under  his  white  skin.  Blackford  looked 
relieved. 

"Do  you  know  the  game?" 

"A  little." 

"Worry  him  and  wait  till  he  loses  his  head — 
remember,  now." 

"All  right,"  said  Crittenden,  cheerfully,  and 
turned  and  faced  Reynolds,  smiling. 

"Gawd,"  said  Abe  Long.  "He's  one  o'  the 
fellows  that  laugh  when  they're  fightin'.  They're 
worse  than  the  cry  in'  sort — a  sight  worse." 

The  prophecy  in  the  soldier's  tone  soon  came 
true.  The  smile  never  left  Crittenden's  face, 
even  when  it  was  so  bruised  up  that  smiling  was 
difficult;  but  the  onlookers  knew  that  the  spirit 
of  the  smile  was  still  there.  Blackford  himself 
was  smiling  now.  Crittenden  struck  but  for  one 
place  at  first — Reynolds's  nose,  which  was  natu 
rally  large  and  red,  because  he  could  reach  it 
every  time  he  led  out.  The  nose  swelled  and 
still  reddened,  and  Reynolds's  small  black  eyes 
narrowed  and  flamed  with  a  wicked  light.  He 
fought  with  his  skill  at  first,  but  those  madden 
ing  taps  on  his  nose  made  him  lose  his  head 
altogether  in  the  sixth  round,  and  he  senselessly 
rushed  at  Crittenden  with  lowered  head,  like  a 
sheep.  Cnttenden  took  him  sidewise  on  his 
91 


CRITTENDEN 

jaw  as  he  came,  and  stepped  aside.  Reynolds 
pitched  to  the  ground  heavily,  and  Crittenden 
bent  over  him. 

"You  let  that  boy  alone,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  and  then  aloud  and  calmly: 

"  I  don't  like  this,  but  it's  in  deference  to  your 
customs.  I  don't  call  names,  and  I  allow  no 
body  to  call  me  names;  and  if  I  have  another 
fight,"  Reynolds  was  listening  now,  "it  won't  be 
with  my  fists." 

"Well,  Mister  Man  from  Kentucky,"  said 
Abe,  "I'd  a  damn  sight  ruther  you'd  use  a  club 
on  me  than  them  fists;  but  there's  others  of  us 
who  don't  call  names,  and  ain't  called  names; 
and  some  of  us  ain't  easy  skeered,  neither." 

"I  wasn't  threatening,"  said  Crittenden, 
quickly,  "but  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  of  that 
sort  of  thing  flying  around,  and  I  don't  want  to 
get  into  this  sort  of  a  thing  again."  He  looked 
steadily  at  the  soldier,  but  the  eye  of  Abraham 
Long  quailed  not  at  all.  Instead,  a  smile  broke 
over  his  face. 

"I  got  a  drink  waitin'  fer  you,"  he  said;  and 
Crittenden  laughed. 

"Git  up  an'  shake  hands,  Jim,"  said  Abe, 
sternly,  to  Crittenden's  opponent,  "an'  let's 
have  a  drink."  Reynolds  got  up  slowly. 

"You  gimme  a  damn  good  lickin,'  "  he  said  to 
Crittenden.  "Shake!" 

92 


CRITTENDEN 

Crittenden  shook,  and  seconds  and  principals 
started  for  Long's  tent. 

"Boys,"  he  said  to  the  others,  "I'm  sorry  fer 
ye.  I  ain't  got  but  four  drinks — and — "  the  old 
Sergeant  was  approaching;  "  and  one  more  fer 
the  Governor." 

Rivers  smiled  broadly  when  he  saw  Crittenden 
at  noon. 

"The  'Governor*  told  me,"  he  said,  "you 
couldn't  do  anything  in  this  regiment  that  would 
do  you  more  good  with  officers  and  men.  That 
fellow  has  caused  us  more  trouble  than  any 
other  ten  men  in  the  regiment,  and  you  are  the 
first  man  yet  to  get  the  best  of  him.  If  the  men 
could  elect  you,  you'd  be  a  lieutenant  before  to 
morrow  night." 

Crittenden  laughed. 

"It  was  disgusting,  but  I  didn't  see  any  other 
way  out  of  it." 

Tattoo  was  sounded. 

"Are  you  sure  you  can  get  me  into  the  army 
at  any  time  ?" 

"Easy — as  a  private." 

"What  regiment?" 

"Rough  Riders  or  Regulars." 

"All  right,  then,  I'll  go  to  Kentucky  for  you." 

"No,  old  man.  I  was  selfish  enough  to  think 
it,  but  I'm  not  selfish  enough  to  do  it.  I  won't 
have  it." 

Q3 


CRITTENDEN 

"  But  I  want  to  go  back.  If  I  can  get  in  at 
the  last  moment  I  should  go  back  anyhow  to 
night." 

"Really?" 

"Really.  Just  see  that  you  let  me  know  in 
time." 

Rivers  grasped  his  hand. 

"I'll  do  that." 

Next  morning  rumours  were  flying.  In  a 
week,  at  least,  they  would  sail.  And  still  regi 
ments  rolled  in,  and  that  afternoon  Crittenden 
saw  the  regiment  come  in  for  which  Grafton 
had  been  waiting — a  picturesque  body  of  fight 
ing  men  and,  perhaps,  the  most  typical  Amer 
ican  regiment  formed  since  Jackson  fought  at 
New  Orleans.  At  the  head  of  it  rode  two  men 
— one  with  a  quiet  mesmeric  power  that  bred 
perfect  trust  at  sight,  the  other  with  a  kindling 
power  of  enthusiasm,  and  a  passionate  energy, 
mental,  physical,  emotional,  that  was  tireless; 
each  a  man  among  men,  and  both  together  an 
ideal  leader  for  the  thousand  Americans  at  their 
heels.  Behind  them  rode  the  Rough  Riders — 
dusty,  travel-stained  troopers,  gathered  from 
every  State,  every  walk  of  labour  and  leisure, 
every  social  grade  in  the  Union — day  labourer 
and  millionaire,  clerk  and  clubman,  college 
boys  and  athletes,  Southern  revenue  officers  and 
Northern  policemen;  but  most  of  them  West- 

94 


CRITTENDEN 

erners — Texan  rangers,  sheriffs,  and  despera 
does — the  men-hunters  and  the  men-hunted; 
Indians;  followers  of  all  political  faiths,  all 
creeds — Catholics,  Protestants,  Jews;  but  cow 
boys  for  the  most  part;  daredevils,  to  be  sure, 
but  good-natured,  good-hearted,  picturesque, 
fearless.  And  Americans — all! 

As  the  last  troopers  -filed  past,  Crittenden 
followed  them  with  his  eyes,  and  he  saw  a  little 
way  off  Blackford  standing  with  folded  arms  on 
the  edge  of  a  cloud  of  dust  and  looking  after 
them  too,  with  his  face  set  as  though  he  were 
buried  deep  in  a  thousand  memories.  He  started 
when  Crittenden  spoke  to  him,  and  the  dark  fire 
of  his  eyes  flashed. 

"That's  where  I  belong,"  he  said,  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand  after  the  retreating  column. 
"  I  don't  know  one  of  them,  and  I  know  them 
all.  I've  gone  to  college  with  some;  I've  hunted, 
fished,  camped,  drank,  and  gambled  with  the 
others.  I  belong  with  them;  and  I'm  going  with 
them  if  I  can;  I'm  trying  to  get  an  exchange 


now." 


"Well,  luck  to  you,  and  good-by,"  said  Crit 
tenden,  holding  out  his  hand.  "I'm  going 
home  to-night." 

"But  you're  coming  back?" 

"Yes." 

Blackford  hesitated. 

95 


CRITTENDEN 

"Are  you  going  to  join  this  outfit?" — mean' 
ing  his  own  regiment. 

"I  don't  know;  this  or  the  Rough  Riders." 

"Well,"  Blackford  seemed  embarrassed,  and 
his  manner  was  almost  respectful,  "if  we  go  to 
gether,  what  do  you  say  to  our  going  as  '  bunk- 
ies'?" 

"Sure!" 

"Thank  you." 

The  two  men  grasped  hands. 

"I  hope  you  will  come  back." 

"I'm  sure  to  come  back.     Good-by." 

"Good-by,  sir." 

The  unconscious  "sir"  startled  Crittenden. 
It  was  merely  habit,  of  course,  and  the  fact  that 
Crittenden  was  not  yet  enlisted,  but  there  was 
an  unintended  significance  in  the  soldier's  tone 
that  made  him  wince.  Blackford  turned  sharply 
away,  flushing. 


VIII 

"DACK  in  the  Bluegrass,  the  earth  was  flashing 
•^-*  with  dew,  and  the  air  was  brilliant  with  a 
steady  light  that  on  its  way  from  the  sun  was 
broken  by  hardly  a  cloud.  The  woodland  was 
alive  with  bird-wing  and  bird-song  and,  under 
them,  with  the  flash  of  metal  and  the  joy  of 
breaking  camp.  The  town  was  a  mighty  pedes 
tal  for  flag-staffs.  Everywhere  flags  were  shaken 
out.  Main  Street,  at  a  distance,  looked  like  a 
long  lane  of  flowers  in  a  great  garden — all  blow 
ing  in  a  wind.  Under  them,  crowds  were  gath 
ered — country  people,  negroes,  and  townfolk — 
while  the  town  band  stood  waiting  at  the  gate  of 
the  park.  The  Legion  was  making  ready  to 
leave  for  Chickamauga,  and  the  town  had  made 
ready  to  speed  its  going. 

Out  of  the  shady  woodland,  and  into  the  bright 
sunlight,  the  young  soldiers  came — to  the  music 
of  stirring  horn  and  drum — legs  swinging  rhyth 
mically,  chins  well  set  in,  eyes  to  the  front — 
wheeling  into  the  main  street  in  perfect  form — 
their  guns  a  moving  forest  of  glinting  steel — 
colonel  and  staff  superbly  mounted — every  heart 
beating  proudly  against  every  blue  blouse,  and 

97 


CRITTENDEN 

sworn  to  give  up  its  blood  for  the  flag  waving 
over  them — the  flag  the  fathers  of  many  had  so 
bitterly  fought  five  and  thirty  years  before. 
Down  the  street  went  the  flash  and  glitter  and 
steady  tramp  of  the  solid  columns,  through 
waving  flags  and  handkerchiefs  and  mad  cheers 
— cheers  that  arose  before  them,  swelled  away 
on  either  side  and  sank  out  of  hearing  behind 
them  as  they  marched — through  faces  bravely 
smiling,  when  the  eyes  were  full  of  tears;  faces 
tense  with  love,  anxiety,  fear;  faces  sad  with 
bitter  memories  of  the  old  war.  On  the  end  of 
the  first  rank  was  the  boy  Basil,  file-leader  of  his 
squad,  swinging  proudly,  his  handsome  face 
serious  and  fixed,  his  eyes  turning  to  right  nor 
left — seeing  not  his  mother,  proud,  white,  tear 
less;  nor  Crittenden,  with  a  lump  of  love  in  his 
throat;  nor  even  little  Phyllis — her  pride  in  her 
boy-soldier  swept  suddenly  out  of  her  aching 
heart,  her  eyes  brimming,  and  her  handkerchief 
at  her  mouth  to  keep  bravely  back  the  sob  that 
surged  at  her  lips.  The  station  at  last,  and 
then  cheers  and  kisses  and  sobs,  and  tears  and 
cheers  again,  and  a  waving  of  hands  and  flags 
and  handkerchiefs — a  column  of  smoke  puffing 
on  and  on  toward  the  horizon — the  vanishing 
perspective  of  a  rear  platform  filled  with  jolly, 
reckless,  waving,  yelling  soldiers,  and  the  tragedy 
of  the  parting  was  over. 


CRITTENDEN 

How  every  detail  of  earth  and  sky  was  seared 
deep  into  the  memory  of  the  women  left  behind 
that  afternoon — as  each  drove  slowly  homeward: 
for  God  help  the  women  in  days  of  war!  The 
very  peace  of  heaven  lay  upon  the  earth.  It 
sank  from  the  low,  moveless  clouds  in  the  wind 
less  sky  to  the  sunlit  trees  in  the  windless  woods, 
as  still  as  the  long  shadows  under  them.  It  lay 
over  the  still  seas  of  bluegrass — dappled  in  wood 
land,  sun-lit  in  open  pasture — resting  on  low 
hills  like  a  soft  cloud  of  bluish-gray,  clinging 
closely  to  every  line  of  every  peaceful  slope. 
Stillness  everywhere.  Still  cattle  browsing  in 
the  distance;  sheep  asleep  in  the  far  shade  of  a 
cliff,  shadowing  the  still  stream;  even  the  song 
of  birds  distant,  faint,  restful.  Peace  every 
where,  but  little  peace  in  the  heart  of  the  mother 
to  whose  lips  was  raised  once  more  the  self-same 
cup  that  she  had  drained  so  long  ago.  Peace 
everywhere  but  for  Phyllis  climbing  the  stairs  to 
her  own  room  and  flinging  herself  upon  her  bed 
in  a  racking  passion  of  tears.  God  help  the 
women  in  the  days  of  war!  Peace  from  the 
dome  of  heaven  to  the  heart  of  the  earth, 
but  a  gnawing  unrest  for  Judith,  who  walked 
very  slowly  down  the  gravelled  walk  and  to 
the  stiles,  and  sat  looking  over  the  quiet  fields. 
Only  in  her  eyes  was  the  light  not  wholly  of 
sadness,  but  a  proud  light  of  sacrifice  and 

99 


CRITTENDEN 

high  resolve.  Crittenden  was  coming  that 
night.  He  was  going  for  good  now;  he  was 
coming  to  tell  her  good-by;  and  he  must  not 
go — to  his  death,  maybe — without  knowing 
what  she  had  to  tell  him.  It  was  not  much — it 
was  very  little,  in  return  for  his  life-long  devo 
tion — that  she  should  at  least  tell  him  how  she 
had  wholly  outgrown  her  girlish  infatuation — 
she  knew  now  that  it  was  nothing  else — for  the 
one  man  who  had  stood  in  her  life  before  him, 
and  that  now  there  was  no  other — lover  or 
friend — for  whom  she  had  the  genuine  affection 
that  she  would  always  have  for  him.  She  would 
tell  him  frankly — she  was  a  grown  woman  now 
— because  she  thought  she  owed  that  much  to 
him — because,  under  the  circumstances,  she 
thought  it  was  her  duty;  and  he  would  not  mis 
understand  her,  even  if  he  really  did  not  have 
quite  the  old  feeling  for  her.  Then,  recalling 
what  he  had  said  on  the  drive,  she  laughed 
softly.  It  was  preposterous.  She  understood 
all  that.  He  had  acted  that  little  part  so  many 
times  in  by-gone  years!  And  she  had  always 
pretended  to  take  him  seriously,  for  she  would 
have  given  him  mortal  offence  had  she  not;  and 
she  was  pretending  to  take  him  seriously  now. 
And,  anyhow,  what  could  he  misunderstand  ? 
There  was  nothing  to  misunderstand. 
And  so,  during  her  drive  home,  she  had 
100 


CRITTENDEN 

thought  all  the  way  of  him  and  of  htirtieljf'  since 
both  were  children — of  his  love  arjd  his 
faithfulness,  and  of  her — her — what? 
had  been  something  of  a  coquette — she  had — she 
had;  but  men  had  bothered  and  worried  her, 
and,  usually,  she  couldn't  help  acting  as  she  had. 
She  was  so  sorry  for  them  all  that  she  had  really 
tried  to  like  them  all.  She  had  succeeded  but 
once — and  even  that  was  a  mistake.  But  she 
remembered  one  thing:  through  it  all — far  back 
as  it  all  was — she  had  never  trifled  with  Crit- 
tenden.  Before  him  she  had  dropped  foil  and 
mask  and  stood  frankly  face  to  face  always. 
There  was  something  in  him  that  had  always 
forced  that.  And  he  had  loved  her  through  it 
all,  and  he  had  suffered — how  much,  it  had 
really  never  occurred  to  her  until  she  thought  of 
a  sudden  that  he  must  have  been  hurt  as  had 
she — hurt  more;  for  what  had  been  only  in 
fatuation  with  her  had  been  genuine  passion  in 
him;  and  the  months  of  her  unhappiness  scarcely 
matched  the  years  of  his.  There  was  none  other 
in  her  life  now  but  him,  and,  somehow,  she  was 
beginning  to  feel  there  never  would  be.  If  there 
were  only  any  way  that  she  could  make  amends. 
Never  had  she  thought  with  such  tenderness 
of  him.  How  strong  and  brave  he  was;  how 
high-minded  and  faithful.  And  he  was  good, 
in  spite  of  all  that  foolish  talk  about  himself. 
101 


CRITTENDEN 

Arid  ail  her  life  he  had  loved  her,  and  he  had 
suffered.  She  could  see  that  he  was  still  un 
happy.  If,  then,  there  was  no  other,  and  was 
to  be  no  other,  and  if,  when  he  came  back  from 
the  war — why  not  ? 

Why  not? 

She  felt  a  sudden  warmth  in  her  cheeks,  her 
lips  parted,  and  as  she  turned  from  the  sunset 
her  eyes  had  all  its  deep  tender  light. 

Dusk  was  falling,  and  already  Raincrow  and 
Crittenden  were  jogging  along  toward  her  at 
that  hour — the  last  trip  for  either  for  many  a 
day — the  last  for  either  in  life,  maybe — for  Rain- 
crow,  too,  like  his  master,  was  going  to  war — 
while  Bob,  at  home,  forbidden  by  his  young 
captain  to  follow  him  to  Chickamauga,  trailed 
after  Crittenden  about  the  place  with  the  appeal 
ing  look  of  a  dog — enraged  now  and  then  by  the 
taunts  of  the  sharp-tongued  Molly,  who  had  the 
little  confidence  in  the  courage  of  her  fellows 
that  marks  her  race. 

Judith  was  waiting  for  him  on  the  porch,  and 
Crittenden  saw  her  from  afar. 

She  was  dressed  for  the  evening  in  pure  white 
— delicate,  filmy — showing  her  round  white 
throat  and  round  white  wrists.  Her  eyes  were 
soft  and  welcoming  and  full  of  light;  her  man 
ner  was  playful  to  the  point  of  coquetry;  and  in 
sharp  contrast,  now  and  then,  her  face  was  in- 
102 


CRITTENDEN 

tense  with  thought.  A  faint,  pink  light  was  still 
diffused  from  the  afterglow,  and  she  took  him 
down  into  her  mother's  garden,  which  was  old- 
fashioned  and  had  grass-walks  running  down 
through  it — bordered  with  pink  beds  and  hedges 
of  rose-bushes.  And  they  passed  under  a  shad 
owed  grape-arbour  and  past  a  dead  locust-tree, 
which  a  vine  had  made  into  a  green  tower  of 
waving  tendrils,  and  from  which  came  the  fra 
grant  breath  of  wild  grape,  and  back  again  to  the 
gate,  where  Judith  reached  down  for  an  old-fash 
ioned  pink  and  pinned  it  in  his  button-hole,  talk 
ing  with  low,  friendly  affection  meanwhile,  and 
turning  backward  the  leaves  of  the  past  rapidly. 

Did  he  remember  this — and  that — and  that  ? 
Memories — memories — memories.  Was  there 
anything  she  had  let  go  unforgotten  ?  And  then, 
as  they  approached  the  porch  in  answer  to  a 
summons  to  supper,  brought  out  by  a  little 
negro  girl,  she  said : 

"You  haven't  told  me  what  regiment  you  are 
going  with." 

"I  don't  know." 

Judith's  eyes  brightened.  "I'm  so  glad  you 
have  a  commission." 

"I  have  no  commission." 

Judith  looked  puzzled.    "Why,  your  mother 

^ >» 

"Yes,  but  I  gave  it  to  Basil."    And  he  ex- 
103 


CRITTENDEN 

plained  in  detail.  He  had  asked  General  Carter 
to  give  the  commission  to  Basil,  and  the  General 
had  said  he  would  gladly.  And  that  morning 
the  Colonel  of  the  Legion  had  promised  to  recom 
mend  Basil  for  the  exchange.  This  was  one 
reason  why  he  had  come  back  to  the  Blue- 
grass.  Judith's  face  was  growing  more  thought 
ful  while  he  spoke,  and  a  proud  light  was  rising 
in  her  eyes. 

"And  you  are  going  as " 

"As  a  private." 

"With  the  Rough  Riders?" 

"As  a  regular — a  plain,  common  soldier,  with 
plain,  common  soldiers.  I  am  trying  to  be  an 
American  now — not  a  Southerner.  I've  been 
drilling  at  Tampa  and  Chickamauga  with  the 
regulars." 

"You  are  much  interested  ?" 

"More  than  in  anything  for  years." 

She  had  seen  this,  and  she  resented  it,  fool 
ishly,  she  knew,  and  without  reason — but,  still, 
she  resented  it. 

"Think  of  it,"  Crittenden  went  on.  "It  is 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  almost,  I  have  known 
what  it  was  to  wish  to  do  something — to  have  a 
purpose — that  was  not  inspired  by  you."  It 
was  an  unconscious  and  rather  ungracious  dec 
laration  of  independence — it  was  unnecessary 
— and  Judith  was  surprised,  chilled — hurt. 
104. 


CRITTENDEN 

"When  do  you  go?" 

Crittenden  pulled  a  telegram  from  his  pocket. 

"To-morrow  morning.  I  got  this  just  as  I 
was  leaving  town." 

"To-morrow!" 

"  It  means  life  or  death  to  me — this  telegram. 
And  if  it  doesn't  mean  life,  I  don't  care  for  the 
other.  I  shall  come  out  with  a  commission  or — 
not  at  all.  If  dead,  I  shall  be  a  hero — if  alive," 
he  smiled,  "I  don't  know  what  Til  be,  but  think 
of  me  as  a  hero,  dead  or  alive,  with  my  past  and 
my  present.  I  can  feel  a  change  already,  a  sort 
of  growing  pain,  at  the  very  thought." 

"When  do  you  go  to  Cuba?" 

"Within  four  days." 

"Four  days!  And  you  can  talk  as  you  do, 
when  you  are  going  to  war  to  live  the  life  of  a 
common  soldier — to  die  of  fever,  to  be  killed, 
maybe,"  her  lip  shook  and  she  stopped,  but  she 
went  on  thickly,  "and  be  thrown  into  an  un 
known  grave  or  lie  unburied  in  a  jungle."  She 
spoke  with  such  sudden  passion  that  Crittenden 
was  startled. 

"Listen!" 

Judge  Page  appeared  in  the  doorway,  wel 
coming  Crittenden  with  old-time  grace  and 
courtesy.  Through  supper,  Judith  was  silent 
and  thoughtful  and,  when  she  did  talk,  it  was 
with  a  perceptible  effort.  There  was  a  light  in 
105 


CRITTENDEN 

her  eyes  that  he  would  have  understood  once — 
that  would  have  put  his  heart  on  fire.  And  once 
he  met  a  look  that  he  was  wholly  at  loss  to  under 
stand.  After  supper,  she  disappeared  while  the 
two  men  smoked  on  the  porch.  The  moon  was 
rising  when  she  came  out  again.  The  breath  of 
honeysuckles  was  heavy  on  the  air,  and  from 
garden  and  fields  floated  innumerable  odours  of 
flower  and  clover  blossom  and  moist  grasses. 
Crittenden  lived  often  through  that  scene  after 
ward — Judith  on  the  highest  step  of  the  porch, 
the  light  from  the  hallway  on  her  dress  and  her 
tightly  folded  hands;  her  face  back  in  shadow, 
from  which  her  eyes  glowed  with  a  fire  in  them 
that  he  had  never  seen  before. 

Judge  Page  rose  soon  to  go  indoors.  He  did 
not  believe  there  was  going  to  be  much  of  a  war, 
and  his  manner  was  almost  cheery  when  he  bade 
the  young  man  good-by. 

"Good  luck  to  you,"  he  said.  "  If  the  chance 
comes,  you  will  give  a  good  account  of  yourself. 
I  never  knew  a  man  of  your  name  who  didn't." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"Basil  will  hardly  have  time  to  get  his  com 
mission,  and  get  to  Tampa." 

"No.    But  he  can  come  after  us." 

She  turned  suddenly  upon  him. 

"Yes — something  has  happened  to  you.  I 
1 06 


CRITTENDEN 

didn't  know  what  you  meant  that  day  we  drove 
home,  but  I  do  now.  I  feel  it,  but  I  don't 
understand." 

Crittenden  flushed,  but  made  no  answer. 

"You  could  not  have  spoken  to  me  in  the  old 
days  as  you  do  now.  Your  instinct  would  have 
held  you  back.  And  something  has  happened 
to  me."  Then  she  began  talking  to  him  as 
frankly  and  simply  as  a  child  to  a  child.  It  was 
foolish  and  selfish,  but  it  had  hurt  her  when  he 
told  her  that  he  no  longer  had  his  old  feeling  for 
her.  It  was  selfish  and  cruel,  but  it  was  true, 
however  selfish  and  cruel  it  seemed,  and  was — 
but  she  had  felt  hurt.  Perhaps  that  was  vanity, 
which  was  not  to  her  credit — but  that,  too,  she 
could  not  help.  It  had  hurt  her  every  time  he 
had  said  anything  from  which  she  could  infer 
that  her  influence  over  him  was  less  than  it  once 
was — although,  as  a  rule,  she  did  not  like  to 
have  influence  over  people.  Maybe  he  wounded 
her  as  his  friend  in  this  way,  and  perhaps  there 
was  a  little  vanity  in  this,  too — but  a  curious 
change  was  taking  place  in  their  relations.  Once 
he  was  always  trying  to  please  her,  and  in  those 
days  she  would  have  made  him  suffer  if  he  had 
spoken  to  her  then  as  he  had  lately — but  he 
would  not  have  spoken  that  way  then.  And  now 
she  wondered  why  she  was  not  angry  instead  of 
being  hurt.  And  she  wondered  why  she  did  not 
107 


CRITTENDEIN 

like  him  less.  Somehow,  it  seemed  quite  fair 
that  she  should  be  the  one  to  suffer  now,  and 
she  was  glad  to  take  her  share — she  had  caused 
him  and  others  so  much  pain. 

"He" — not  even  now  did  she  mention  his 
name — "wrote  to  me  again,  not  long  ago,  ask 
ing  to  see  me  again.  It  was  impossible.  And  it 
was  the  thought  of  you  that  made  me  know  how 
impossible  it  was — you."  The  girl  laughed,  al 
most  hardly,  but  she  was  thinking  of  herself 
when  she  did — not  of  him. 

The  time  and  circumstance  that  make  woman 
the  thing  apart  in  a  man's  life  must  come  sooner 
or  later  to  all  women,  and  women  must  yield; 
she  knew  that,  but  she  had  never  thought  they 
could  come  to  her — but  they  had  come,  and  she, 
too,  must  give  way. 

"It  is  all  very  strange,"  she  said,  as  though 
she  were  talking  to  herself,  and  she  rose  and 
walked  into  the  warm,  fragrant  night,  and 
down  the  path  to  the  stiles,  Crittenden  silently 
following.  The  night  was  breathless  and  the 
moon-lit  woods  had  the  still  beauty  of  a  dream; 
and  Judith  went  on  speaking  of  herself  as  she 
had  never  done — -of  the  man  whose  name  she 
had  never  mentioned,  and  whose  name  Crit 
tenden  had  never  asked.  Until  that  night,  he 
had  not  known  even  whether  the  man  were 
still  alive  or  dead.  She  had  thought  that  was 
108 


CRITTENDEN 

love — until  lately  she  had  never  questioned  but 
that  when  that  was  gone  from  her  heart,  all  was 
gone  that  would  ever  be  possible  for  her  to 
know.  That  was  why  she  had  told  Crittenden 
to  conquer  his  love  for  her.  And  now  she  was 
beginning  to  doubt  and  to  wonder — ever  since 
she  came  back  and  heard  him  at  the  old  audi 
torium — and  why  and  whence  the  change  now  ? 
That  puzzled  her.  One  thing  was  curious — 
through  it  all,  as  far  back  as  she  could  remem 
ber,  her  feeling  for  him  had  never  changed,  ex 
cept  lately.  Perhaps  it  was  an  unconscious  re 
sponse  in  her  to  the  nobler  change  that  in  spite 
of  his  new  hardness  her  instinct  told  her  was  at 
work  in  him. 

She  was  leaning  on  the  fence  now,  her  elbow 
on  the  top  plank,  her  hand  under  her  chin,  and 
her  face  uplifted — the  moon  lighting  her  hair, 
her  face,  and  eyes,  and  her  voice  the  voice  of 
one  slowly  threading  the  mazes  of  a  half- 
forgotten  dream.  Crittenden's  own  face  grew 
tense  as  he  watched  her.  There  was  a  tone  in 
her  voice  that  he  had  hungered  for  all  his  life; 
that  he  had  never  heard  but  in  his  imaginings 
and  in  his  dreams;  that  he  had  heard  sounding 
in  the  ears  of  another  and  sounding  at  the  same 
time  the  death-knell  of  the  one  hope  that  until 
now  had  made  effort  worth  while.  All  evening 
she  had  played  about  his  spirit  as  a  wistful, 
109 


CRITTENDEN 

changeful  light  will  play  over  the  fields  when 
the  moon  is  bright  and  clouds  run  swiftly.  She 
turned  on  him  like  a  flame  now. 

"Until  lately,"  she  was  saying,  and  she  was 
not  saying  at  all  what  she  meant  to  say;  but 
here  lately  a  change  was  taking  place;  some 
thing  had  come  into  her  feeling  for  him  that  was 
new  and  strange — she  could  not  understand — 
perhaps  it  had  always  been  there;  perhaps  she 
was  merely  becoming  conscious  of  it.  And 
when  she  thought,  as  she  had  been  thinking  all 
day,  of  his  long  years  of  devotion — how  badly 
she  had  requited  them — it  seemed  that  the  least 
she  could  do  was  to  tell  him  that  he  was  now 
first  in  her  life  of  all  men — that  much  she  could 
say;  and  perhaps  he  had  always  been,  she  did 
not  know;  perhaps,  now  that  the  half-gods  were 
gone,  it  was  at  last  the  coming  of  the — the — 
She  was  deeply  agitated  now;  her  voice  was 
trembling;  she  faltered,  and  she  turned  sud 
denly,  sharply,  and  with  a  little  catch  in  her 
breath,  her  lips  and  eyes  opening  slowly — her 
first  consciousness,  perhaps,  a  wonder  at  his 
strange  silence — and  dazed  by  her  own  feeling 
and  flushing  painfully,  she  looked  at  him  for  the 
first  time  since  she  began  to  talk,  and  she  saw 
him  staring  fixedly  at  her  with  a  half-agonized 
look,  as  though  he  were  speechlessly  trying  to 
stop  her,  his  face  white,  bitter,  shamed,  helpless. 
no 


CRITTENDEN 

Not  a  word  more  dropped  from  her  lips — not  a 
sound.  She  moved;  it  seemed  that  she  was 
about  to  fall,  and  Crittenden  started  toward 
her,  but  she  drew  herself  erect,  and,  as  she 
turned — lifting  her  head  proudly — the  moon 
light  showed  that  her  throat  was  drawn — noth 
ing  more.  Motionless  and  speechless,  Critten 
den  watched  her  white  shape  move  slowly  and 
quietly  up  the  walk  and  grow  dim;  heard  her 
light,  even  step  on  the  gravel,  up  the  steps, 
across  the  porch,  and  through  the  doorway. 
Not  once  did  she  look  around. 

He  was  in  his  room  now  and  at  his  window, 
his  face  hard  as  stone  when  his  heart  was 
parching  for  tears.  It  was  true,  then.  He  was 
the  brute  he  feared  he  was.  He  had  killed  his 
life,  and  he  had  killed  his  love — beyond  even 
her  power  to  recall.  His  soul,  too,  must  be 
dead,  and  it  were  just  as  well  that  his  body  die. 
And,  still  bitter,  still  shamed  and  hopeless,  he 
stretched  out  his  arms  to  the  South  with  a  fierce 
longing  for  the  quick  fate — no  matter  what — 
that  was  waiting  for  him  there. 


Ill 


IX 

T>  Y  and  by  bulletins  began  to  come  in  to  the 
mother    at    Canewood    from    her    boy    at 
Tampa.    There  was  little  psychology  in  Basil's 
bulletin: 

"I  got  here  all  right.  My  commission  hasn't 
come,  and  I've  joined  the  Rough  Riders,  for 
fear  it  won't  get  here  in  time.  The  Colonel  was 
very  kind  to  me — called  me  Mister. 

"I've  got  a  lieutenant's  uniform  of  khaki, 
but  I'm  keeping  it  out  of  sight.  I  may  have  no 
use  for  it.  I've  got  two  left  spurs,  and  I'm 
writing  in  the  Waldorf-Astoria.  I  like  these 
Northern  fellows;  they  are  gentlemen  and 
plucky — I  can  see  that.  Very  few  of  them 
swear.  I  wish  I  knew  where  brother  is.  The 
Colonel  calls  everybody  Mister — even  the  In 
dians. 

"Word  comes  to-night  that  we  are  to  be  off 

to  the  front.     Please  send  me  a  piece  of  cotton 

to  clean  my  gun.    And  please  be  easy  about  me 

• — do   be   easy.     And    if  you   insist   on    giving 

112 


CRITTENDEN 

me  a  title,  don't  call  me  Private — call  me 
Trooper. 

"Yes,  we  are  going;  the  thing  is  serious.  We 
are  all  packed  up  now;  have  rolled  up  camping 
outfit  and  are  ready  to  start. 

"Baggage  on  the  transport  now,  and  we  sail 
this  afternoon.  Am  sorry  to  leave  all  of  you, 
and  I  have  a  tear  in  my  eye  now  that  I  can't 
keep  back.  It  isn't  a  summer  picnic,  and  I 
don't  feel  like  shouting  when  I  think  of  home; 
but  I'm  always  lucky,  and  I'll  come  out  all 
right.  I'm  afraid  I  sha'n't  see  brother  at  all. 
I  tried  to  look  cheerful  for  my  picture  (enclosed). 
Good-by. 

"Some  delay;  actually  on  board  and  steam 
up. 

"Waiting — waiting — waiting.  It's  bad  enough 
to  go  to  Cuba  in  boats  like  these,  but  to 
lie  around  for  days  is  trying.  No  one  goes 
ashore,  and  I  can  hear  nothing  of  brother.  I 
wonder  why  the  General  didn't  give  him  that 
commission  instead  of  me.  There  is  a  curious 
sort  of  fellow  here,  who  says  he  knows  brother. 
His  name  is  Blackford,  and  he  is  very  kind  to 
me.  He  used  to  be  a  regular,  and  he  says  he 
thinks  brother  took  his  place  in  the  — th  and  is 
a  regular  now  himself — a  private;  I  don't  under 
stand.  There  is  mighty  little  Rough  Riding 
about  this. 

"3 


CRITTENDEN 

"P.  S. — My  bunkie  is  from  Boston — Bob 
Sumner.  His  father  commanded  a  negro  regi 
ment  in  a  fight  once  against  my  father;  think  of 
it! 

"Hurrah!  we're  off." 

It  was  a  tropical  holiday — that  sail  down  to 
Cuba — a  strange,  huge  pleasure-trip  of  steam 
ships,  sailing  in  a  lordly  column  of  three;  at 
night,  sailing  always,  it  seemed,  in  a  harbour 
of  brilliant  lights  under  multitudinous  stars  and 
over  thickly  sown  beds  of  tiny  phosphorescent 
stars  that  were  blown  about  like  flowers  in  a 
wind-storm  by  the  frothing  wake  of  the  ships; 
by  day,  through  a  brilliant  sunlit  sea,  a  cool 
breeze — so  cool  that  only  at  noon  was  the  heat 
tropical — and  over  smooth  water,  blue  as 
sapphire.  Music  night  and  morning,  on  each 
ship,  and  music  coming  across  the  little  waves 
at  any  hour  from  the  ships  about.  Porpoises 
frisking  at  the  bows  and  chasing  each  other  in 
a  circle  around  bow  and  stern  as  though  the 
transports  sat  motionless;  schools  of  flying-fish 
with  filmy,  rainbow  wings  rising  from  one  wave 
and  shimmering  through  the  sunlight  to  the 
foamy  crest  of  another — sometimes  hundreds  of 
yards  away.  Beautiful  clear  sunsets  of  rose, 
gold-green,  and  crimson,  with  one  big,  pure 
radiant  star  ever  like  a  censor  over  them;  every 
114 


CRITTENDEN 

night  the  stars  more  deeply  and  thickly  sown 
and  growing  ever  softer  and  more  brilliant  as 
the  boats  neared  the  tropics;  every  day  dawn 
rich  with  beauty  and  richer  for  the  dewy  memo 
ries  of  the  dawns  that  were  left  behind. 

Now  and  then  a  little  torpedo-boat  would  cut 
like  a  knife-blade  through  the  water  on  mes 
senger  service;  or  a  gunboat  would  drop  lightly 
down  the  hill  of  the  sea,  along  the  top  of  which 
it  patrolled  so  vigilantly;  and  ever  on  the  horizon 
hung  a  battle-ship  that  looked  like  a  great  gray 
floating  cathedral.  But  nobody  was  looking  for 
a  fight — nobody  thought  the  Spaniard  would 
fight — and  so  these  were  only  symbols  of  war; 
and  even  they  seemed  merely  playing  the  game. 

It  was  as  Grafton  said.  Far  ahead  went  the 
flag-ship  with  the  huge  Commander-in-Chief 
and  his  staff,  the  gorgeous  attaches,  and  the  ar 
tists  and  correspondents,  with  valets,  orderlies, 
stenographers,  and  secretaries.  Somewhere,  far 
to  the  rear,  one  ship  was  filled  with  newspaper 
men  from  stem  to  stern.  But  wily  Grafton  was 
with  Lawton  and  Chaffee,  the  only  correspond 
ent  aboard  their  transport.  On  the  second  day, 
as  he  sat  on  the  poop-deck,  a  negro  boy  came 
up  to  him,  grinning  uneasily: 

"I  seed  you  back  in  ole  Kentuck,  suh." 

"You  did?  Well,  I  don't  remember  seeing 
you.  What  do  you  want?" 


CRITTENDEN 

"Captain  say  he  gwine  to  throw  me  over 
board." 

"What  for?" 

"I  ain't  got  no  business  here,  suh." 

"Then  what  are  you  here  for?" 

"Lookin'ferOleCap'n,  suh." 

"Ole  Cap'n  who  ?"  said  Grafton,  mimicking. 

"Cap'n  Crittenden,  suh." 

"Well,  if  you  are  his  servant,  I  suppose  they 
won't  throw  you  overboard.  What's  your 
name?" 

"Bob,  suh— Bob  Crittenden." 

"Crittenden,"    repeated    Grafton,    smiling. 
"Oh,  yes,  I  know  him;  I  should  say  so!    So  he's 
a  Captain  ?" 

"  Yes,  suh,"  said  Bob,  not  quite  sure  whether 
he  was  lying  or  not. 

Grafton  spoke  to  an  officer,  and  was  allowed 
to  take  Bob  for  his  own  servant,  though  the 
officer  said  he  did  not  remember  any  captain 
of  that  name  in  the  — th.  To  the  newspaper 
man,  Bob  was  a  godsend;  for  humour  was 
scarce  on  board,  and  "jollying"  Bob  was  a 
welcome  diversion.  He  learned  many  things  of 
Crittenden  and  the  Crittendens,  and  what  great 
people  they  had  always  been  and  still  were; 
but  at  a  certain  point  Bob  was  evasive  or  dumb 
— and  the  correspondent  respected  the  servant's 
delicacy  about  family  affairs  and  went  no  fur- 
116 


CRITTENDEN 

ther  along  that  line — he  had  no  curiosity,  and 
was  questioning  idly  and  for  fun,  but  treated 
Bob  kindly  and,  in  return,  the  fat  of  the  ship, 
through  Bob's  keen  eye  and  quick  hand,  was 
his,  thereafter,  from  day  to  day. 

Grafton  was  not  storing  up  much  material  for 
use;  but  he  would  have  been  much  surprised 
if  he  could  have  looked  straight  across  to  the 
deck  of  the  ship  running  parallel  to  his  and 
have  seen  the  dignified  young  statesman  whom 
he  had  heard  speak  at  the  recruiting  camp  in 
Kentucky;  who  made  him  think  of  Henry  Clay; 
whom  he  had  seen  whisking  a  beautiful  girl 
from  the  camp  in  the  smartest  turn-out  he  had 
seen  South — had  seen  him  now  as  Private  Crit- 
denden,  with  his  fast  friend,  Abe  Long,  and 
passing  in  his  company  because  of  his  bearing 
under  a  soubriquet  donated  by  his  late  enemy, 
Reynolds,  as  "Old  Hamlet  of  Kentuck."  And 
Crittenden  would  have  been  surprised  had  he 
known  that  the  active  darky  whom  he  saw 
carrying  coffee  and  shoes  to  a  certain  state 
room  was  none  other  than  Bob  waiting  on 
Grafton.  And  that  the  Rough  Rider  whom  he 
saw  scribbling  on  a  pad  in  the  rigging  of  the 
Yucatan  was  none  other  than  Basil  writing  one 
of  his  bulletins  home. 

It  was  hard  for  him  to  believe  that  he  really 
was  going  to  war,  even  now,  when  the  long  sail 
117 


CRITTENDEN 

was  near  an  end  and  the  ships  were  running 
fearlessly  along  the  big,  grim  coast-mountains 
of  Cuba,  with  bands  playing  and  colors  to  the 
breeze;  hard  to  realize  that  he  was  not  to  land 
in  peace  and  safety  and,  in  peace  and  safety,  go 
back  as  he  came;  that  a  little  further  down  those 
gashed  mountains,  showing  ever  clearer  through 
the  mist,  were  men  with  whom  the  quiet  officers 
and  men  around  him  would  soon  be  in  a  death- 
grapple.  The  thought  stirred  him,  and  he 
looked  around  at  the  big,  strong  fellows — in 
telligent,  orderly,  obedient,  good-natured,  and 
patient;  patient,  restless,  and  sick  as  they  were 
from  the  dreadful  hencoop  life  they  had  led  for 
so  many  days— patient  beyond  words.  He  had 
risen  early  that  morning.  The  rose  light  over 
the  eastern  water  was  whitening,  and  all  over  the 
deck  his  comrades  lay  asleep,  their  faces  gray 
in  the  coming  dawn  and  their  attitudes  suggest 
ing  ghastly  premonitions — premonitions  that 
would  come  true  fast  enough  for  some  of  the 
poor  fellows — perhaps  for  him.  Stepping  be 
tween  and  over  the  prostrate  bodies,  he  made 
his  way  forward  and  leaned  over  the  prow,  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand  and  his  hair  blowing  back 

o 

from  his  forehead. 

Already  his  face  had  suffered  a  change.     For 
more  than  three  long  weeks  he  had  been  merely 
a  plain  man  among  plain  men.    At  once  when  he 
118 


CRITTENDEN 

became  Private  Crittenden,  No.  63,  Company 
C,  — th  United  States  Regular  Cavalry,  at 
Tampa,  he  was  shorn  of  his  former  estate  as 
completely  as  though  in  the  process  he  had  been 
wholly  merged  into  some  other  man.  The 
officers,  at  whose  table  he  had  once  sat,  an 
swered  his  salute  precisely  as  they  answered  any 
soldier's.  He  had  seen  Rivers  but  seldom — but 
once  only  on  the  old  footing,  and  that  was  on 
the  night  he  went  on  board,  when  Rivers  came 
to  tell  him  good-by  and  to  bitterly  bemoan  the 
luck  that,  as  was  his  fear  from  the  beginning, 
had  put  him  among  the  ill-starred  ones  chosen 
to  stay  behind  at  Tampa  and  take  care  of  the 
horses;  as  hostlers,  he  said,  with  deep  disgust, 
adding  hungrily: 

"I  wish  I  were  in  your  place." 

With  the  men,  Crittenden  was  popular,  for 
he  did  his  work  thoroughly,  asked  no  favors, 
shirked  no  duties.  There  were  several  officers' 
sons  among  them  working  for  commissions,  and, 
naturally,  he  drifted  to  them,  and  he  found  them 
all  good  fellows.  Of  Blackford,  he  was  rather 
wary,  after  Rivers's  short  history  of  him,  but  as 
he  was  friendly,  unselfish,  had  a  high  sense  of 
personal  honour,  and  a  peculiar  reverence  for 
women,  Crittenden  asked  no  further  questions, 
and  was  sorry,  when  he  came  back  to  Tampa, 
to  find  him  gone  with  the  Rough  Riders.  With 
119 


CRITTENDEN 

Reynolds,  he  was  particularly  popular,  and  he 
never  knew  that  the  story  of  the  Tampa  fight 
had  gone  to  all  the  line  officers  of  the  regiment, 
and  that  nearly  every  one  of  them  knew  him  by 
sight  and  knew  his  history.  Only  once  from  an 
officer,  however,  and  steadily  always  from  the 
old  Sergeant,  could  he  feel  that  he  was  regarded 
in  a  different  light  from  the  humblest  soldier  in 
the  ranks — which  is  just  what  he  would  have 
asked.  The  Colonel  had  cast  an  envious  eye  on 
Raincrow  at  Tampa,  and,  straightway,  he  had 
taken  the  liberty  of  getting  the  Sergeant  to  take 
the  horse  to  the  Colonel's  tent  with  the  request 
that  he  use  him  throughout  the  campaign. 
The  horse  came  back  with  the  Colonel's  thanks; 
but,  when  the  order  came  that  the  cavalry  was 
to  go  unmounted,  the  Colonel  sent  word  that 
he  would  take  the  horse  now,  as  the  soldier 
could  not  use  him.  So  Raincrow  was  aboard 
the  ship,  and  the  old  Colonel,  coming  down  to 
look  at  the  horse  one  day,  found  Crittenden 
feeding  him,  and  thanked  him  and  asked  him 
how  he  was  getting  along;  and,  while  there  was 
a  smile  about  his  humorous  mouth,  there  was 
a  kindly  look  in  his  blue  eyes  that  pleased 
Crittenden  mightily.  As  for  the  old  Sergeant, 
he  could  never  forget  that  the  soldier  was  a 
Crittenden — one  of  his  revered  Crittendens. 
And,  while  he  was  particularly  stern  with  him 
1 20 


CRITTENDEN 

in  the  presence  of  his  comrades,  for  fear  that 
he  might  be  betrayed  into  showing  partiality — 
he  was  always  drifting  around  to  give  him  a 
word  of  advice  and  to  shake  his  head  over  the 
step  that  Crittenden  had  taken. 

That  step  had  made  him  good  in  body  and 
soul.  It  made  him  lean  and  tanned;  it  sharp 
ened  and  strengthened  his  profile;  it  cleared  his 
eye  and  settled  his  lips  even  more  firmly.  To 
bacco  and  liquor  were  scarce,  and  from  disuse 
he  got  a  new  sensation  of  mental  clearness  and 
physical  cleanliness  that  was  comforting  and 
invigorating,  and  helped  bring  back  the  fresh 
ness  of  his  boyhood. 

For  the  first  time  in  many  years,  his  days 
were  full  of  work  and,  asleep,  awake,  or  at 
work,  his  hours  were  clock-like  and  steadied 
him  into  machine-like  regularity.  It  was  work 
of  his  hands,  to  be  sure,  and  not  even  high  work 
of  that  kind,  but  still  it  was  work.  And  the 
measure  of  the  self-respect  that  this  fact  alone 
brought  him  was  worth  it  all.  Already,  his 
mind  was  taking  character  from  his  body.  He 
was  distinctly  less  morbid  and  he  found  himself 
thinking  during  those  long  days  of  the  sail  of 
what  he  should  do  after  the  war  was  over.  His 
desire  to  get  killed  was  gone,  and  it  was  slowly 
being  forced  on  him  that  he  had  been  priggish, 
pompous,  self-absorbed,  hair-splitting,  lazy, 
121 


CRITTENDEN 

good-for-nothing,  when  there  was  no  need  for 
him  to  be  other  than  what  he  meant  to  be  when 
he  got  back.  And  as  for  Judith,  he  felt  the  bit 
terness  of  gall  for  himself  when  he  thought  of 
her,  and  he  never  allowed  himself  to  think  of 
her  except  to  absolve  her,  as  he  knew  she  would 
not  absolve  herself,  and  to  curse  himself  heartily 
and  bitterly.  He  understood  now.  It  was  just 
her  thought  of  his  faithfulness,  her  feeling  of 
responsibility  for  him — the  thought  that  she  had 
not  been  as  kind  to  him  as  she  might  have  been 
(and  she  had  always  been  kinder  *han  he  de 
served) — all  this  had  loosed  her  tears  and  her 
self-control,  and  had  thrown  her  into  a  mood  of 
reckless  self-sacrifice.  And  when  she  looked  up 
into  his  face  that  night  of  the  parting,  he  felt  her 
looking  into  his  soul  and  seeing  his  shame  that 
he  had  lost  his  love  because  he  had  lost  himself, 
and  she  was  quite  right  to  turn  from  him,  as 
she  did,  without  another  word.  Already,  how 
ever,  he  was  healthy  enough  to  believe  that  he 
was  not  quite  so  hopeless  as  she  must  think  him 
— not  as  hopeless  as  he  had  thought  himself. 
Life,  now,  with  even  a  soldier's  work,  was  far 
from  being  as  worthless  as  life  with  a  gentle 
man's  idleness  had  been.  He  was  honest 
enough  to  take  no  credit  for  the  clean  change  in 
his  life — no  other  life  was  possible;  but  he  was 
learning  the  practical  value  and  mental  comfort 
122 


CRITTENDEN 

of  straight  living  as  he  had  never  learned  them 
before.  And  he  was  not  so  prone  to  metaphy 
sics  and  morbid  self-examination  as  he  once 
was,  and  he  shook  off  a  mood  of  that  kind  when 
it  came — impatiently — as  he  shook  it  off  now. 
He  was  a  soldier  now,  and  his  province  was 
action  and  no  more  thought  than  his  superiors 
allowed  him.  And,  standing  thus,  at  sunrise, 
on  the  plunging  bow  of  the  ship,  with  his  eager, 
sensitive  face  splitting  the  swift  wind — he  might 
have  stood  to  any  thoughtful  American  who 
knew  his  character  and  his  history  as  a  national 
hope  and  a  national  danger.  The  nation, 
measured  by  its  swift  leap  into  maturity,  its 
striking  power  to  keep  going  at  the  same  swift 
pace,  was  about  his  age.  South,  North,  and 
West  it  had  lived,  or  was  living,  his  life.  It  had 
his  faults  and  his  virtues;  like  him,  it  was  high- 
spirited,  high-minded,  alert,  active,  manly,  gen 
erous,  and  with  it,  as  with  him,  the  bad  was 
circumstantial,  trivial,  incipient;  the  good  was 
bred  in  the  Saxon  bone  and  lasting  as  rock — if 
the  surface  evil  were  only  checked  in  time  and 
held  down.  Like  him,  it  needed,  like  a  Titan, 
to  get  back,  now  and  then,  to  the  earth  to  renew 
its  strength.  And  the  war  would  send  the  na 
tion  to  the  earth  as  it  would  send  him,  if  he  but 
lived  it  through. 

There  was  little  perceptible  change  in   the 
123 


CRITTENDEN 

-; 

American  officer  and  soldier,  now  that  the  work 
was  about  actually  to  begin.  A  little  more 
soberness  was  apparent.  Everyone  was  still 
simple,  natural,  matter-of-fact.  But  that  night, 
doubtless,  each  man  dreamed  his  dream.  The 
West  Point  stripling  saw  in  his  empty  shoulder- 
straps  a  single  bar,  as  the  man  above  him  saw 
two  tiny  bars  where  he  had  been  so  proud  of 
one.  The  Captain  led  a  battalion,  the  Major 
charged  at  the  head  of  a  thousand  strong;  the 
Colonel  plucked  a  star,  and  the  Brigadier  heard 
the  tramp  of  hosts  behind  him.  And  who  knows 
how  many  bold  spirits  leaped  at  once  that  night 
from  acorns  to  stars;  and  if  there  was  not  more 
than  one  who  saw  himself  the  war-god  of  the 
anxious  nation  behind — saw,  maybe,  even  the 
doors  of  the  White  House  swing  open  at  the  con 
quering  sound  of  his  coming  feet.  And,  through 
the  dreams  of  all,  waved  aimlessly  the  mighty 
wand  of  the  blind  master — Fate — giving  death 
to  a  passion  for  glory  here;  disappointment  bit 
ter  as  death  to  a  noble  ambition  there;  and  there 
giving  unsought  fame  where  was  indifference  to 
death;  and  then,  to  lend  substance  to  the  phan 
tom  of  just  deserts,  giving  a  mortal  here  and 
there  the  exact  fulfilment  of  his  dream. 

Two  toasts  were  drunk  that  night — one  by 
the  men  who  were  to  lead  the  Rough  Riders  of 
the  West. 

124 


CRITTENDEN 

"  May  the  war  last  till  each  man  meets  death, 
wears  a  wound,  or  wins  himself  better  spurs." 

And,  in  the  hold  of  the  same  ship,  another  in 
whiskey  from  a  tin  cup  between  two  comrades: 

"Bunkie,"  said  Blackford,  to  a  dare-devil 
like  himself,  "welcome  to  the  Spanish  bullet 
that  knocks  for  entrance  here" — tapping  his 
heart.  Basil  struck  the  cup  from  his  hand,  and 
Blackford  swore,  laughed,  and  put  his  arm 
around  the  boy. 


X 


A  LREADY  now,  the  first  little  fight  was 
•^  ^  g°ing  on>  and  Grafton,  the  last  newspaper 
man  ashore,  was  making  for  the  front — with 
Bob  close  at  his  heels.  It  was  hot,  very  hot,  but 
the  road  was  a  good,  hard  path  of  clean  sand, 
and  now  and  then  a  breeze  stirred,  or  a  light, 
cool  rain  twinkled  in  the  air.  On  each  side  lay 
marsh,  swamp,  pool,  and  tropical  jungle — and, 
to  Grafton's  Northern  imagination,  strange  dis 
eases  lurked  like  monsters  everywhere.  Every 
strange,  hot  odour  made  him  uneasy  and,  at 
times,  he  found  himself  turning  his  head  and 
holding  his  breath,  as  he  always  did  when  he 
passed  a  pest-house  in  his  childhood.  About 
him  were  strange  plants,  strange  flowers,  strange 
trees,  the  music  of  strange  birds,  with  nothing 
to  see  that  was  familiar  except  sky,  mountain, 
running  water,  and  sand;  nothing  home-like  to 
hear  but  the  twitter  of  swallows  and  the  whistle 
of  quail. 

That  path  was  no  road  for  a  hard-drinking 
man  to  travel  and,  now  and  then,  Grafton 
shrank  back,  with  a  startled  laugh,  from  the 
126 


CRITTENDEN 

hideous  things  crawling  across  the  road  and 
rustling  into  the  cactus — spiders  with  snail- 
houses  over  them;  lizards  with  green  bodies  and 
yellow  legs,  and  green  legs  and  yellow  bodies; 
hairy  tarantulas,  scorpions,  and  hideous  mottled 
land-crabs,  standing  three  inches  from  the  sand, 
and  watching  him  with  hideous  little  eyes  as 
they  shuffled  sidewise  into  the  bushes.  More 
over,  he  was  following  the  trail  of  an  army  by 
the  uncheerful  signs  in  its  wake — the  debris  of 
the  last  night's  camp — empty  cans,  bits  of  hard 
tack,  crackers,  bad  odours,  and,  by  and  by, 
odds  and  ends  that  the  soldiers  discarded  as 
the  sun  got  warm  and  their  packs  heavy — • 
drawers,  undershirts,  coats,  blankets,  knap 
sacks,  an  occasional  gauntlet  or  legging,  bits  of 
fat  bacon,  canned  meats,  hardtack — and  a 
swarm  of  buzzards  in  the  path,  in  the  trees,  and 
wheeling  in  the  air — and  smiling  Cubans  pick 
ing  up  everything  they  could  eat  or  wear. 

An  hour  later,  he  met  a  soldier,  who  told  him 
there  had  been  a  fight,  Still,  an  hour  later, 
rumours  came  thick,  but  so  conflicting  and  wild 
that  Grafton  began  to  hope  there  had  been  no 
fight  at  all.  Proof  met  him,  then,  in  the  road — 
a  white  man,  on  foot,  with  his  arm  in  a  bloody 
sling.  Then,  on  a  litter,  a  negro  trooper  with  a 
shattered  leg;  then  another  with  a  bullet  through 
his  throat;  and  another  wounded  man,  and  an- 
127 


CRITTENDEN 

other.  On  horseback  rode  a  Sergeant  with  a 
bandage  around  his  brow — Grafton  could  see 
him  smiling  broadly  fifty  yards  ahead — and  the 
furrow  of  a  Mauser  bullet  across  his  temple,  and 
just  under  his  skin. 

"Still  nutty,"  said  Grafton  to  himself. 

Further  on  was  a  camp  of  insurgents — little, 
thin,  brown  fellows,  ragged,  dirty,  shoeless — 
each  with  a  sugar-loaf  straw  hat,  a  Remington 
rifle  of  the  pattern  of  1882,  or  a  brand  new 
Krag-Jorgensen  donated  by  Uncle  Sam,  and  the 
inevitable  and  ever  ready  machete  swinging  in 
a  case  of  embossed  leather  on  the  left  hip. 
Very  young  they  were,  and  very  old;  and  wiry, 
quick-eyed,  intelligent,  for  the  most  part  and, 
in  countenance,  vivacious  and  rather  gentle. 
There  was  a  little  creek  next,  and,  climbing  the 
bank  of  the  other  side,  Grafton  stopped  short, 
with  a  start,  in  the  road.  To  the  right  and  on  a 
sloping  bank  lay  eight  gray  shapes,  muffled 
from  head  to  foot,  and  Grafton  would  have 
known  that  all  of  them  were  in  their  last  sleep, 
but  one,  who  lay  with  his  left  knee  bent  and 
upright,  his  left  elbow  thrust  from  his  blanket, 
and  his  hand  on  his  heart.  He  slept  like  a  child. 

Beyond  was  the  camp  of  the  regulars  who 

had  taken  part  in  the  fight.    On  one  side  stood  a 

Colonel,  who  himself  had  aimed  a  Hotchkiss 

gun  in  the  last  battle — covered  with  grime  and 

128 


CRITTENDEN 

sweat,  and  with  the  passion  of  battle  not  quite 
gone  from  his  eyes;  and  across  the  road  soldiers 
were  digging  one  long  grave.  Grafton  pushed 
on  a  little  further,  and  on  the  top  of  the  ridge 
and  on  the  grassy  sun-lit  knoll  was  the  camp  of 
the  Riders,  just  beyond  the  rifle-pits  from  which 
they  had  driven  the  Spaniards.  Under  a  tree  to 
the  right  lay  another  row  of  muffled  shapes,  and 
at  once  Grafton  walked  with  the  Colonel  to  the 
hospital,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  The  path, 
thickly  shaded  and  dappled  with  sunshine,  ran 
along  the  ridge  through  the  battle-field,  and  it 
was  as  pretty,  peaceful,  and  romantic  as  a  lovers' 
walk  in  a  garden.  Here  and  there,  the  tall  grass 
along  the  path  was  pressed  flat  where  a  wounded 
man  had  lain.  In  one  place,  the  grass  was 
matted  and  dark  red;  nearby  was  a  blood 
stained  hat  marked  with  the  initials  "E.  L." 
Here  was  the  spot  where  the  first  victim  of  the 
fight  fell.  A  passing  soldier,  who  reluctantly 
gave  his  name  as  Blackford,  bared  his  left  arm 
and  showed  the  newspaper  man  three  places 
between  his  wrist  and  elbow  where  the  skin  had 
been  merely  blistered  by  three  separate  bullets 
as  he  lay  fighting  unseen  enemies.  Further  on, 
lay  a  dead  Spaniard,  with  covered  face. 

"There's  one,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  care 
less  gesture.    A  huge  buzzard  flapped  from  the 
tree  over  the  dead  man  as  they  passed  beneath. 
129 


CRITTENDEN 

Beyond  was  the  open-air  hospital,  where  two 
more  rigid  human  figures,  and  where  the 
wounded  lay — white,  quiet,  uncomplaining. 

And  there  a  surgeon  told  him  how  the 
wounded  had  lain  there  during  the  fight  singing: 

"  My  Country,  'tis  of  thee!  " 

And  Grafton  beat  his  hands  together,  while 
his  throat  was  full  and  his  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.  To  think  what  he  had  missed — to  think 
what  he  had  missed! 

He  knew  that  national  interest  would  centre 
in  this  regiment  of  Rough  Riders;  for  every 
State  in  the  Union  had  a  son  in  its  ranks,  and 
the  sons  represented  every  social  element  in  the 
national  life.  Never  was  there  a  more  repre 
sentative  body  of  men,  nor  a  body  of  more 
varied  elements  standing  all  on  one  and  the 
same  basis  of  American  manhood.  He  recalled 
how,  at  Tampa,  he  had  stood  with  the  Colonel 
while  the  regiment  filed  past,  the  Colonel,  mean 
while,  telling  him  about  the  men — the  strong 
men,  who  made  strong  stories  for  Wister  and 
strong  pictures  for  Remington.  And  the  Colonel 
had  pointed  with  especial  pride  and  affection  to 
two  boy  troopers,  who  marched  at  the  head  of 
his  column — a  Puritan  from  Massachusetts  and 
a  Cavalier  through  Virginia  blood  from  Ken 
tucky;  one  the  son  of  a  Confederate  General, 
130 


CRITTENDEN 

the  other  the  son  of  a  Union  General — both 
beardless  "bunkies,"  brothers  in  arms,  and  fast 
becoming  brothers  at  heart — Robert  Sumner 
and  Basil  Crittenden.  The  Colonel  waved  his 
hand  toward  the  wild  Westerners  who  followed 
them. 

"  It's  odd  to  think  it — but  those  two  boys  are 
the  fathers  of  the  regiment." 

And  now  that  Grafton  looked  around  and 
thought  of  it  again — they  were.  The  fathers  of 
the  regiment  had  planted  Plymouth  and  James 
town;  had  wrenched  life  and  liberty  and  civiliza 
tion  from  the  granite  of  New  England,  the  fast 
nesses  of  the  Cumberland,  and  the  wildernesses 
of  the  rich  valleys  beyond;  while  the  sires  of 
these  very  Westerners  had  gone  on  with  the 
same  trinity  through  the  barren  wastes  of 
plains.  And,  now,  having  conquered  the  New 
World,  Puritan  and  Cavalier,  and  the  children 
of  both  were  come  together  again  on  the  same 
old  mission  of  freedom,  but  this  time  the  freedom 
of  others;  carrying  the  fruits  of  their  own  strug 
gle  back  to  the  old  land  from  which  they  came, 
with  the  sword  in  one  hand,  if  there  was  need, 
but  with  the  torch  of  liberty  in  the  other — held 
high,  and,  as  God's  ringer  pointed,  lighting  the 
way. 

To  think  what  he  had  missed! 

As  Grafton  walked  slowly  back,  an  officer 


CRITTENDEN 

was  calling  the  roll  of  his  company  under  the 
quiet,  sunny  hill,  and  he  stopped  to  listen. 
Now  and  then  there  was  no  answer,  and  he 
went  on — thrilled  and  saddened.  The  play  was 
ended — this  was  war. 

Outside  the  camp  the  road  was  full  of  half- 
angry,  bitterly  disappointed  infantry — Chaffee's 
men.  When  he  reached  the  camp  of  the  cavalry 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill  again,  a  soldier  called  his 
name  as  he  passed — a  grimy  soldier — and  Graf- 
ton  stopped  in  his  tracks. 

"Well,  by  God!" 

It  was  Crittenden,  who  smiled  when  he  saw 
Grafton's  bewildered  face.  Then  the  Ken- 
tuckian,  too,  stared  in  utter  amazement  at  a 
black  face  grinning  over  Grafton's  shoulder. 

"Bob!"  he  said,  sharply. 

"Yessuh,"  said  Bob  humbly. 

"  Whar  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"Nothin',  Ole  Cap'n— jes  doin*  nothin',"  said 
Bob,  with  the  naivete  of  a  child.  "Jes  lookin* 
for  you." 

"Is  that  your  negro?"  A  sarcastic  Lieuten 
ant  was  asking  the  question. 

"He's  my  servant,  sir." 

"Well,  we  don't  allow  soldiers  to  take  their 
valets  to  the  field." 

"My   servant   at   home,    sir,    I   meant.      He 
came  of  his  own  accord." 
132 


Nothin',  Ole  Cap'n— jes  doin'  nothin'— jes  lookin'  for  you." 


CRITTENDEN 

"Go  find  Basil,"  Crittenden  said  to  Bob, 
"and  if  you  can't  find  him/'  he  added  in  a  lower 
tone,  "and  want  anything,  come  back  here  to 


me." 


"Yessuh,"  said  Bob,  loath  to  go,  but,  seeing 
the  Lieutenant  scowling,  he  moved  on  down  the 
road. 

"I  thought  you  were  a  Captain,"  said  Graf- 
ton.  Crittenden  laughed. 

"Not  exactly." 

"Forward,"  shouted  the  Lieutenant," march!" 

Grafton  looked  Crittenden  over. 

"Well,  I  swear,"  he  said  heartily,  and,  as 
Crittenden  moved  forward,  Grafton  stood  look 
ing  after  him.  "A  regular — I  do  be  damned!" 

That  night  Basil  wrote  home.  He  had  not 
fired  his  musket  a  single  time.  He  saw  nothing 
to  shoot  at,  and  he  saw  no  use  shooting  until  he 
did  have  something  to  shoot  at.  It  was  terrible 
to  see  men  dead  and  wounded,  but  the  fight  it 
self  was  stupid — blundering  through  a  jungle, 
bullets  zipping  about,  and  the  Spaniards  too  far 
away  and  invisible.  He  wanted  to  be  closer. 

"General  Carter  has  sent  for  me  to  take  my 
place  on  his  staff.  I  don't  want  to  go,  but  the 
Colonel  says  I  ought.  I  don't  believe  I  would, 
if  the  General  hadn't  been  father's  friend  and 
if  my  'bunkie'  weren't  wounded.  He's  all 
right,  but  he'll  have  to  go  back.  I'd  like  to 


CRITTENDEN 

have  his  wound,  but  I'd  hate  to  have  to  go  back. 
The  Colonel  says  he's  sorry  to  lose  me.  He 
meant  to  make  me  a  corporal,  he  says.  I  don't 
know  what  for — but  Hooray! 

"Brother  was  not  in  the  fight,  I  suppose. 
Don't  worry  about  me — please  don't  worry. 

"  P.  S. — I  have  often  wondered  what  it  would 
be  like  to  be  on  the  eve  of  a  battle.  It's  no 
different  from  anything  else." 

Abe  Long  and  Crittenden  were  bunkies  now. 
Abe's  comrade,  the  boy  Sanders,  had  been 
wounded  and  sent  to  the  rear.  Reynolds,  too, 
was  shot  through  the  shoulder,  and,  despite  his 
protests,  was  ordered  back  to  the  coast. 

"Oh,  I'll  be  on  hand  for  the  next  scrap,"  he 
said. 

Abe  and  Crittenden  had  been  side  by  side  in 
the  fight.  It  was  no  surprise  to  Crittenden 
that  any  man  was  brave.  By  his  code,  a  man 
would  be  better  dead  than  alive  a  coward.  He 
believed  cowardice  exceptional  and  the  brave 
man  the  rule,  but  he  was  not  prepared  for  Abe's 
coolness  and  his  humour.  Never  did  the  West 
erner's  voice  change,  and  never  did  the  grim 
half-smile  leave  his  eyes  or  his  mouth.  Once 
during  the  fight  he  took  off  his  hat. 

"How's  my  hair  parted?"  he  asked,  quietly. 

A  Mauser  bullet  had  mowed  a  path  through 
Abe's  thick,  upright  hair,  scraping  the  skin  for 

134 


CRITTENDEN 

three  inches,  and  leaving  a  trail  of  tiny,  red 
drops.  Crittenden  turned  to  look  and  laugh, 
and  a  bullet  cut  through  the  open  flap  of  his 
shirt,  just  over  his  heart.  He  pointed  to  it. 

"See  the  good  turn  you  did  me." 

While  the  two  were  cooking  supper,  the  old 
Sergeant  came  up. 

"If  you  don't  obey  orders  next  time,"  he  said 
to  Crittenden,  sternly,  for  Abe  was  present, 
"I'll  report  you  to  the  Captain."  Crittenden 
had  declined  to  take  shelter  during  the  fight — 
it  was  a  racial  inheritance  that  both  the  North 
and  the  South  learned  to  correct  in  the  old  war. 

"That's  right,  Governor,"  said  Abe. 

"The  Colonel  himself  wanted  to  know  what 
damn  fool  that  was  standing  out  in  the  road. 
He  meant  you." 

"All  right,  Sergeant,"  Crittenden  said. 

When  he  came  in  from  guard  duty,  late  that 
night,  he  learned  that  Basil  was  safe.  He  lay 
down  with  a  grateful  heart,  and  his  thoughts, 
like  the  thoughts  of  every  man  in  that  tropical 
forest,  took  flight  for  home.  Life  was  getting 
very  simple  now  for  him — death,  too,  and  duty. 
Already  he  was  beginning  to  wonder  at  his  old 
self  and,  with  a  shock,  it  came  to  him  that  there 
were  but  three  women  in  the  world  to  him — 
Phyllis  and  his  mother — and  Judith.  He 
thought  of  the  night  of  the  parting,  and  it  flashed 

135 


CRITTENDEN 

for  the  first  time  upon  him  that  Judith  might 
have  taken  the  shame  that  he  felt  reddening  his 
face  as  shame  for  her,  and  not  for  himself:  and 
a  pain  shot  through  him  so  keen  that  he  groaned 
aloud. 

Above  him  was  a  clear  sky,  a  quarter  moon, 
an  enveloping  mist  of  stars,  and  the  very  peace 
of  heaven.  But  there  was  little  sleep — and  that 
battle-haunted — for  any:  and  for  him  none  at 
all. 

And  none  at  all  during  that  night  of  agony 
for  Judith,  nor  Phyllis,  nor  the  mother  at  Cane- 
wood,  though  there  was  a  reaction  of  joy,  next 
morning,  when  the  name  of  neither  Crittenden 
was  among  the  wounded  or  the  dead. 

Nothing  had  been  heard,  so  far,  of  the  elder 
brother  but,  as  they  sat  in  the  porch,  a  negro 
boy  brought  the  town  paper,  and  Mrs.  Crit 
tenden  found  a  paragraph  about  a  soldiet 
springing  into  the  sea  in  full  uniform  at  Siboney 
to  rescue  a  drowning  comrade,  who  had  fallen 
into  the  surf  while  trying  to  land,  and  had  been 
sunk  to  the  bottom  by  his  arms  and  ammuni 
tion.  And  the  rescuer's  name  was  Crittenden. 
The  writer  went  on  to  tell  who  he  was,  and  how 
he  had  given  up  his  commission  to  a  younger 
brother  and  had  gone  as  a  private  in  the  regular 
army — how  he  had  been  offered  another  after 

136 


CRITTENDEN 

he  reached  Cuba,  and  had  declined  that,  too — 
having  entered  with  his  comrades,  he  would 
stay  with  them  to  the  end.  Whereat  the  mother's 
face  burned  with  a  proud  fire,  as  did  Phyllis's, 
when  Mrs.  Crittenden  read  on  about  this  Crit- 
tenden's  young  brother,  who,  while  waiting  for 
his  commission,  had  gone  as  a  Rough  Rider, 
and  who,  after  gallant  conduct  during  the  first 
fight,  had  taken  his  place  on  General  Carter's 
staff.  Phyllis  clapped  her  hands,  softly,  with  a 
long  sigh  of  pride — and  relief. 

"I  can  eat  strawberries,  now."  And  she 
blushed  again.  Phyllis  had  been  living  on 
bacon  and  corn-bread,  she  confessed  shame 
facedly,  because  Trooper  Basil  was  living  on 
bacon  and  hardtack — little  dreaming  that  the 
food  she  forced  upon  herself  in  this  sacrificial 
way  was  being  swallowed  by  that  hearty  young 
ster  with  a  relish  that  he  would  not  have  known 
at  home  for  fried  chicken  and  hot  rolls. 

"Yes,"  laughed  Mrs.  Crittenden.  "You  can 
eat  strawberries  now.  You  can  balance  them 
against  his  cocoanuts." 

Phyllis  picked  up  the  paper  then,  with  a  cry 
of  surprise — the  name  signed  to  the  article  was 
Grafton,  whom  she  had  seen  at  the  recruiting 
camp.  And  then  she  read  the  last  paragraph 
that  the  mother  had  not  read  aloud,  and  she 
turned  sharply  awa^  and  stooped  to  a  pink-bed, 

137 


CRITTENDEN 

as  though  she  would  pick  one,  and  the  mother 
saw  her  shoulders  shaking  with  silent  sobs,  and 
she  took  the  child  in  her  arms. 

There  was  to  be  a  decisive  fight  in  a  few  days 
— the  attack  on  Santiago — that  was  what  Phyl 
lis  had  read.  The  Spaniard  had  a  good  muster- 
roll  of  regulars  and  aid  from  Cervera's  fleet; 
was  well  armed,  and  had  plenty  of  time  to  in 
trench  and  otherwise  prepare  himself  for  a 
bloody  fight  in  the  last  ditch. 

So  that,  each  day  there  was  a  relief  to  the 
night  agony,  which,  every  morning,  began 
straightway  with  the  thought  that  the  fight 
might  be  going  on  at  that  very  hour.  Not  once 
did  Judith  come  near.  She  had  been  ill,  to  be 
sure,  but  one  day  Mrs.  Crittenden  met  her  on 
the  way  to  town  and  stopped  her  in  the  road; 
but  the  girl  had  spoken  so  strangely  that  the 
mother  drove  on,  at  loss  to  understand  and 
much  hurt.  Next  day  she  learned  that  Judith, 
despite  her  ill  health  and  her  father's  protests, 
had  gone  to  nurse  the  sick  and  the  wounded — 
what  Phyllis  plead  in  vain  to  do.  The  following 
day  a  letter  came  from  Mrs.  Crittenden's  elder 
son.  He  was  well,  and  the  mother  must  not 
worry  about  either  him  or  Basil.  He  did  not 
think  there  would  be  much  fighting  and,  any 
how,  the  great  risk  was  from  disease,  and  he 
feared  very  little  rrom  that.  Basil  would  be 

138 


CRITTENDEN 

much  safer  as  an  aid  on  a  General's  staff.  He 
would  get  plenty  to  eat,  would  be  less  exposed 
to  weather,  have  no  long  marches — as  he  would 
be  mounted — and  no  guard  duty  at  all  hours  of 
day  and  night.  And,  moreover,  he  would  prob 
ably  be  less  constantly  exposed  to  bullets.  So 
she  must  not  worry  about  him.  Not  one  word 
was  there  about  Judith — not  even  to  ask  how 
she  was,  which  was  strange.  He  had  said 
nothing  about  the  girl  when  he  told  his  mother 
good-by;  and  when  she  broached  the  subject,  he 
answered  sadly: 

"Don't,  mother;  I  can't  say  a  word — not  a 
word." 

In  his  letter  he  had  outlined  Basil's  advan 
tages,  not  one  of  which  was  his — and  sitting  on 
the  porch  of  the  old  homestead  at  sunset  of  the 
last  rich  day  in  June,  the  mother  was  following 
her  eldest  born  through  the  transport  life,  the 
fiery  marches,  the  night  watches  on  lonely  out 
posts,  the  hard  food,  the  drenching  rains,  steam 
ing  heat,  laden  with  the  breath  of  terrible  dis 
ease,  not  realizing  how  little  he  minded  it  all 
and  how  much  good  it  was  doing  him.  She  did 
know,  however,  that  it  had  been  but  play  thus 
far  to  what  must  follow.  Perhaps,  even  now, 
she  thought,  the  deadly  work  was  beginning, 
while  she  sat  in  the  shrine  of  peace — even  now. 

And  it  was.    Almost  at  that  hour  the  troops 

139 


CRITTENDEN 

were  breaking  camp  and  moving  forward  along 
the  one  narrow  jungle-road — choked  with  wagon, 
pack-mule,  and  soldier — through  a  haze  of  dust, 
and,  turning  to  the  right  at  the  first  crossing  be 
yond  corps  head-quarters — under  Chaffee — for 
Caney.  Now  and  then  a  piece  of  artillery,  with 
its  flashes  of  crimson,  would  pass  through  the 
advancing  columns  amid  the  waving  of  hats 
and  a  great  cheering  to  take  position  against  the 
stone  fort  at  Caney  or  at  El  Poso,  to  be  trained 
on  the  block-house  at  San  Juan.  And  through 
the  sunset  and  the  dusk  the  columns  marched, 
and,  after  night  fell,  the  dark,  silent  masses  of 
slouch  hats,  shoulders,  and  gun-muzzles  kept  on 
marching  past  the  smoke  and  flare  of  the  de 
serted  camp-fires  that  lighted  thicket  and  grassy 
plot  along  the  trail.  And  after  the  flames  had 
died  down  to  cinders — in  the  same  black  terrible 
silence,  the  hosts  were  marching  still. 

That  night  a  last  good-by  to  all  womankind, 
but  wife,  mother,  sister,  sweetheart.  The  world 
was  to  be  a  man's  world  next  day,  and  the  man 
a  coarse,  dirty,  sweaty,  swearing,  good-natured, 
grimly  humorous,  cruel,  kindly  soldier,  feverish 
for  a  fight  and  as  primitive  in  passion  as  a  cave- 
dweller  fighting  his  kind  for  food.  The  great 
little  fight  was  at  hand. 


I40 


XI 


TDEFORE  dawn  again — everything  in  war  be- 
gins  at  dawn — and  the  thickets  around  a 
certain  little  gray  stone  fort  alive  with  slouch 
hat,  blue  blouse,  and  Krag-Jorgensen,  slipping 
through  the  brush,  building  no  fires,  and  talking 
in  low  tones  for  fear  the  timorous  enemy  would 
see,  or  hear,  and  run  before  the  American  sharp 
shooter  could  get  a  chance  to  try  his  marksman 
ship;  wondering,  eight  hours  later,  if  the  timor 
ous  enemy  were  ever  going  to  run.  Eastward 
and  on  a  high  knoll  stripped  of  bushes,  four  3.2 
guns  unlimbered  and  thrown  into  position 
against  that  fort  and  a  certain  little  red-roofed 
town  to  the  left  of  it.  This  was  Caney. 

Eastward  still,  three  miles  across  an  uneven 
expanse  of  green,  jungle  and  jungle-road  alive 
with  men,  bivouacing  fearlessly  around  and 
under  four  more  3.2  guns  planted  on  another 
high-stripped  knoll — El  Poso — and  trained  on 
a  little  pagoda-like  block-house,  which  sat  like 
a  Christmas  toy  on  top  of  a  green  little,  steep 
little  hill  from  the  base  of  which  curved  an 
orchard-like  valley  back  to  sweeping  curve  of 
the  jungle.  This  was  San  Juan. 
141 


CRITTENDEN 

Nature  loves  sudden  effects  in  the  tropics. 
While  Chaffee  fretted  in  valley-shadows  around 
Caney  and  Lawton  strode  like  a  yellow  lion  past 
the  guns  on  the  hill  and,  eastward,  gunner  on 
the  other  hill  at  El  Poso  and  soldier  in  the  jungle 
below  listened  westward,  a  red  light  ran  like  a 
flame  over  the  east,  the  tops  of  the  mountains 
shot  suddenly  upward  and  it  was  day — flashing 
day,  with  dripping  dew  and  birds  singing  and  a 
freshness  of  light  and  air  that  gave  way  suddenly 
when  the  sun  quickly  pushed  an  arc  of  fire  over 
the  green  shoulder  of  a  hill  and  smote  the  soldiers 
over  and  under  the  low  trees  like  rays  from  an 
open  furnace. 

It  smote  Reynolds  as  he  sat  by  the  creek  under 
the  guns  before  San  Juan,  idly  watching  water 
bubble  into  three  canteens,  and  it  opened  his 
lips  for  an  oath  that  he  was  too  lazy  to  speak; 
it  smote  Abe  Long  cooking  coffee  on  the  bank 
some  ten  yards  away,  and  made  him  raise  from 
the  fire  and  draw  first  one  long  forearm  and 
then  the  other  across  his  heat-wrinkled  brow; 
but,  unheeded,  it  smote  Crittenden — who  stood 
near,  leaning  against  a  palm-tree — full  in  his 
uplifted  face.  Perhaps  that  was  the  last  sunrise 
on  earth  for  him.  He  was  watching  it  in  Cuba, 
but  his  spirit  was  hovering  around  home.  He 
could  feel  the  air  from  the  woods  in  front  of 
Canewood;  could  hear  the  darkies  going  to  work 
142 


CRITTENDEN 

and  Aunt  Keziah  singing  in  the  kitchen.  He 
could  see  his  mother's  shutter  open,  could  see 
her  a  moment  later,  smiling  at  him  from  her 
door.  And  Judith — where  was  she,  and  what 
was  she  doing  ?  Could  she  be  thinking  of  him  ? 
The  sound  of  his  own  name  coming  down 
through  the  hot  air  made  him  start,  and,  look 
ing  up  toward  the  Rough  Riders,  who  were 
gathered  about  a  little  stuccoed  farm-house  just 
behind  the  guns  on  the  hill,  he  saw  Blackford 
waving  at  him.  At  the  same  moment  hoofs  beat 
the  dirt-road  behind  him— familiar  hoof-beats — 
and  he  turned  to  see  Basil  and  Raincrow — for 
Crittenden's  Colonel  was  sick  with  fever  and 
Basil  had  Raincrow  now — on  their  way  with  a 
message  to  Chaffee  at  Caney.  Crittenden  sa 
luted  gravely,  as  did  Basil,  though  the  boy 
turned  in  his  saddle,  and  with  an  affectionate 
smile  waved  back  at  him. 

Crittenden's  lips  moved. 

"God  bless  him." 

"Fire!" 

Over  on  the  hill,  before  Caney,  a  man  with 
a  lanyard  gave  a  quick  jerk.  There  was  a  cap 
explosion  at  the  butt  of  the  gun  and  a  bulging 
white  cloud  from  the  muzzle;  the  trail  bounced 
from  its  shallow  trench,  the  wheels  whirled  back 
twice  on  the  rebound,  and  the  shell  was  hissing 

M3 


CRITTENDEN 

through  the  air  as  iron  hisses  when  a  black 
smith  thrusts  it  red-hot  into  cold  water.  Basil 
could  hear  that  awful  hiss  so  plainly  that  he 
seemed  to  be  following  the  shell  with  his  naked 
eye;  he  could  hear  it  above  the  reverberating 
roar  of  the  gun  up  and  down  the  coast-mountain; 
hear  it  until,  six  seconds  later,  a  puff  of  smoke 
answered  beyond  the  Spanish  column  where  the 
shell  burst.  Then  in  eight  seconds — for  the  shell 
travelled  that  much  faster  than  sound — the 
muffled  report  of  its  bursting  struck  his  ears, 
and  all  that  was  left  of  the  first  shot  that  started 
the  great  little  fight  was  the  thick,  sunlit  smoke 
sweeping  away  from  the  muzzle  of  the  gun  and 
the  little  mist-cloud  of  the  shell  rising  slowly 
upward  beyond  the  stone  fort,  which  seemed 
not  to  know  any  harm  was  possible  or  near. 

Again  Crittenden,  leaning  against  the  palm, 
heard  his  name  called.  Again  it  was  Blackford 
who  was  opening  his  mouth  to  shout  some  mes 
sage  when — Ah !  The  shout  died  on  Blackford's 
lips,  and  every  man  on  the  hill  and  in  the  woods, 
at  that  instant,  stayed  his  foot  and  his  hand — 
even  a  man  standing  with  a  gray  horse  against 
the  blue  wall — he,  too,  stopped  to  listen.  It 
really  sounded  too  dull  and  muffled  for  a  shell; 
but,  a  few  seconds  later,  there  was  a  roar  against 
the  big  walls  of  living  green  behind  Caney. 
144 


CRITTENDEN 

The  first  shot! 

"Ready!" 

Even  with  the  cry  at  El  Poso  came  another 
sullen,  low  boom  and  another  aggressive  roar 
from  Caney:  then  a  great  crackling  in  the  air, 
as  though  thousands  of  school-boys  were  letting 
off  fire-crackers,  pack  after  pack. 

"Fire!" 

Every  ear  heard,  every  eye  saw  the  sudden 
white  mist  at  a  gun-muzzle  and  fo  lowed  that 
first  shell  screaming  toward  the  little  Christmas 
toy  sitting  in  the  sun  on  that  distant  little  hill. 
And  yet  it  was  nothing.  Another  and  yet  an 
other  mass  of  shrapnel  went  screaming,  and 
still  there  was  no  response,  no  sign.  It  was  noth 
ing — nothing  at  all.  Was  the  Spaniard  asleep  ? 

Crittenden  could  see  attache,  correspondent, 
aid,  staff-officer,  non-combatant,  sight-seer  crowd 
ing  close  about  the  guns — so  close  that  the 
gunners  could  hardly  work.  He  could  almost 
hear  them  saying,  one  to  another: 

"Why,  is  this  war — really  war?  Why,  this 
isn't  so  bad." 

Twanged  just  then  a  bow-string  in  the  direc 
tion  of  San  Juan  hill,  and  the  twang  seemed  to 
be  getting  louder  and  to  be  coming  toward  the 
little  blue  farm-house.  No  cannon  was  in  sight; 
there  was  no  smoke  visible,  and  many,  with  an 
upward  look,  wondered  what  the  queer  sound 

145 


CRITTENDEN 

could  be.  Suddenly  there  was  a  screeching, 
crackling  answer  in  the  air;  the  atmosphere  was 
rent  apart  as  by  a  lightning  stroke  directly  over 
head.  The  man  and  the  horse  by  the  blue  wall 
dropped  noiselessly  to  the  earth.  A  Rough 
Rider  paled  and  limped  down  the  hill  and  Black- 
ford  shook  his  hand — a  piece  of  shrapnel  had 
fallen  harmlessly  on  his  wrist.  On  the  hill — 
Crittenden  laughed  as  he  looked — on  the  hill, 
nobody  ran — everybody  tumbled.  Besides  the 
men  at  the  guns,  only  two  others  were  left — 
civilians. 

"  You're  a  fool,"  said  one. 

"You're  another." 

"What'd  you  stay  here  for?" 

"Because  you  did.     What'd  you  stay  for?" 

"Because  you  did." 

Then  they  went  down  together — rapidly — and 
just  in  time.  Another  shell  shrieked.  Two 
artillerymen  and  two  sergeants  dropped  dead  at 
their  guns,  and  a  corporal  fell,  mortally  wounded. 
A  third  burst  in  a  group  of  Cubans.  Several  of 
them  flew  out,  killed  or  wounded,  into  the  air; 
the  rest  ran  shrieking  for  the  woods.  Below, 
those  woods  began  to  move.  Under  those  shells 
started  the  impatient  soldiers  down  that  narrow 
lane  through  the  jungle,  and  with  Reynolds  and 
Abe  Long  on  the  "point"  was  Crittenden,  his 
Krag-Jorgensen  across  his  breast — thrilled,  for 
146 


CRITTENDEN 

all  the  world,  as  though  he  were  on  a  hunt  for 
big  game. 

•          ••••••• 

And  all  the  time  the  sound  of  ripping  cloth 
was  rolling  over  from  Caney,  the  far-away 
rumble  of  wagons  over  cobble-stones,  or  softened 
stage  hail  and  stage  thunder  around  the  block 
house,  stone  fort,  and  town.  At  first  it  was  a 
desultory  fire,  like  the  popping  of  a  bunch  of 
fire-crackers  that  have  to  be  relighted  several 
times,  and  Basil  and  Grafton,  galloping  toward 
it,  could  hear  the  hiss  of  bullets  that  far  away. 
But,  now  and  then,  the  fire  was  as  steady  as  a 
Gatling-gun.  Behind  them  the  artillery  had 
turned  on  the  stone  fort,  and  Grafton  saw  one 
shot  tear  a  hole  through  the  wall,  then  another, 
and  another.  He  could  see  Spaniards  darting 
from  the  fort  and  taking  refuge  in  the  encircling 
stone-cut  trenches;  and  then  nothing  else — for 
their  powder  was  smokeless — except  the  straw 
hats  of  the  little  devils  in  blue,  who  blazed  away 
from  their  trenches  around  the  fort  and  minded 
the  shells  bursting  over  and  around  them  as  little 
as  though  they  had  been  bursting  snowballs.  If 
the  boy  ahead  noted  anything,  Grafton  could 
not  tell.  Basil  turned  his  head  neither  to  right 
nor  left,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  muddy  hill,  the 
black  horse  that  he  rode,  without  touch  of  spur, 
seemed  suddenly  to  leave  the  earth  and  pass  on 


CRITTENDEN 

out  of  sight  with  the  swift  silence  of  a  shadow. 
At  the  foot  of  a  hill  walked  the  first  wounded 
man — a  Colonel  limping  between  two  soldiers. 
The  Colonel  looked  up  smiling — he  had  a  terrible 
wound  in  the  groin. 

"Well,"  he  called  cheerily,  "I'm  the  first  vic 


tim." 


Grafton  wondered.  Was  it  possible  that  men 
were  going  to  behave  on  a  battle-field  just  as 
they  did  anywhere  else — just  as  naturally — 
taking  wounds  and  death  and  horror  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course  ?  Beyond  were  more  wounded — 
the  wounded  who  were  able  to  help  themselves. 
Soon  he  saw  them  lying  by  the  roadside,  here 
and  there  a  dead  one;  by  and  by,  he  struck  a 
battalion  marching  to  storm  a  block-house.  He 
got  down,  hitched  his  horse  a  few  yards  from  the 
road  and  joined  it.  He  was  wondering  how  it 
would  feel  to  be  under  fire,  when  just  as  they 
were  crossing  another  road,  with  a  whir  and 
whistle  and  buzz,  a  cloud  of  swift  insects  buzzed 
over  his  head.  Unconsciously  imitating  the  sol 
diers  near  him,  he  bent  low  and  walked  rapidly. 
Right  and  left  of  him  sounded  two  or  three  low, 
horrib  e  crunching  noises,  and  right  and  left  of 
him  two  or  three  blue  shapes  sank  limply  down 
on  their  faces.  A  sudden  sickness  seized  him, 
nauseating  him  like  a  fetid  odour — the  crunch 
ing  noise  was  the  sound  of  a  bullet  crashing  into 
148 


CRITTENDEN 

a  living  human  skull  as  the  men  bent  forward. 
One  man,  he  remembered  afterward,  dropped 
with  the  quick  grunt  of  an  animal — he  was 
killed  outright;  another  gave  a  gasping  cry, 
"Oh,  God" — there  was  a  moment  of  suffering 
consciousness  for  him;  a  third  hopped  aside  into 
the  bushes — cursing  angrily.  Still  another,  as 
he  passed,  looked  up  from  the  earth  at  him  with 
a  curious  smile,  as  though  he  were  half  ashamed 
of  something. 

"I've  got  it,  partner,"  he  said,  "I  reckon  I've 
got  it,  sure."  And  Grafton  saw  a  drop  of  blood 
and  the  tiny  mouth  of  a  wound  in  his  gullet, 
where  the  flaps  of  his  collar  fell  apart.  He 
couldn't  realize  how  he  felt — he  was  not  inter 
ested  any  longer  in  how  he  felt.  The  instinct  of 
life  was  at  work,  and  the  instinct  of  self-defence. 
When  the  others  dropped,  he  dropped  gladly; 
when  they  rose,  he  rose  automatically.  A  piece 
of  brush,  a  bush,  the  low  branch  of  a  tree,  a 
weed  seemed  to  him  protection,  and  he  saw 
others  possessed  with  the  same  absurd  idea. 
Once  the  unworthy  thought  crossed  his  mind, 
when  he  was  lying  behind  a  squad  of  soldiers 
and  a  little  lower  than  they,  that  his  chance  was 
at  least  better  than  theirs.  And  once,  and  only 
once — with  a  bitter  sting  of  shame — he  caught 
himself  dropping  back  a  little,  so  that  the  same 
squad  should  be  between  him  and  the  enemy: 
149 


CRITTENDEN 

and  forthwith  he  stepped  out  into  the  road, 
abreast  with  the  foremost,  cursing  himself  for  a 
coward,  and  thereafter  took  a  savage  delight  in 
reckless  exposure  whenever  it  was  possible. 
And  he  soon  saw  that  his  position  was  a  queer 
one,  and  an  unenviable  one,  as  far  as  a  cool  test 
of  nerve  was  the  point  at  issue.  The  officers,  he 
saw,  had  their  men  to  look  after — orders  to  obey 
— their  minds  were  occupied.  The  soldiers  were 
busy  getting  a  shot  at  the  enemy — their  minds, 
too,  were  occupied.  It  was  his  peculiar  prov 
ince  to  stand  up  and  be  shot  at  without  the 
satisfaction  of  shooting  back — studying  his  sen 
sations,  meanwhile,  which  were  not  particularly 
pleasant,  and  studying  the  grewsome  horrors 
about  him.  And  it  struck  him,  too,  that  this  was 
a  ghastly  business,  and  an  unjustifiable,  and 
that  if  it  pleased  God  to  see  him  through  he 
would  never  go  to  another  war  except  as  a  sol 
dier.  One  consideration  interested  him  and  was 
satisfactory.  Nobody  was  shooting  at  him — 
nobody  was  shooting  at  anybody  in  particular. 
If  he  were  killed,  or  when  anybody  was  killed, 
it  was  merely  accident,  and  it  was  thus  pleasant 
to  reflect  that  he  was  in  as  much  danger  as 
anybody. 

The  firing  was  pretty  hot  now,  and  the  wound 
ed  were  too  many  to  be  handled.  A  hospital 
man  called  out  sharply: 

150 


CRITTENDEN 

"Give  a  hand  here."  Grafton  gave  a  hand  to 
help  a  poor  fellow  back  to  the  field  hospital,  in 
a  little  hollow,  and  when  he  reached  the  road 
again  that  black  horse  and  his  boy  rider  were 
coming  back  like  shadows,  through  a  rain  of 
bullets,  along  the  edge  of  the  woods.  Once  the 
horse  plunged  sidewise  and  shook  his  head 
angrily — a  Mauser  had  stung  him  in  the  neck — 
but  the  lad,  pale  and  his  eyes  like  stars,  lifted 
him  in  a  flying  leap  over  a  barbed-wire  fence  and 
swung  him  into  the  road  again. 

"Damn!"  said  Grafton,  simply. 

Then  rose  a  loud  cheer  from  the  battery  on 
the  hill,  and,  looking  west,  he  saw  the  war- 
balloon  hung  high  above  the  trees  and  moving 
toward  Santiago.  The  advance  had  begun  over 
there;  there  was  the  main  attack — the  big  battle. 
It  was  interesting  and  horrible  enough  where  he 
was,  but  Caney  was  not  Santiago;  and  Grafton, 
too,  mounted  his  horse  and  galloped  after  Basil. 

At  head-quarters  began  the  central  lane  of 
death  that  led  toward  San  Juan,  and  Basil 
picked  his  way  through  it  at  a  slow  walk — his 
excitement  gone  for  the  moment  and  his  heart 
breaking  at  the  sight  of  the  terrible  procession 
on  its  way  to  the  rear.  Men  with  arms  in  slings; 
men  with  trousers  torn  away  at  the  knee,  and 
bandaged  legs;  men  with  brow,  face,  mouth,  or 

1.5* 


CRITTENDEN 

throat  swathed;  men  with  no  shirts,  but  a  broad 
swathe  around  the  chest  or  stomach — each  band 
age  grotesquely  pictured  with  human  figures 
printed  to  show  how  the  wound  should  be  bound, 
on  whatever  part  of  the  body  the  bullet  entered. 
Men  staggering  along  unaided,  or  between  two 
comrades,  or  borne  on  litters,  some  white  and 
quiet,  some  groaning  and  blood-stained,  some 
conscious,  some  dying,  some  using  a  rifle  for  a 
support,  or  a  stick  thrust  through  the  side  of  a 
tomato-can.  Rolls,  haversacks,  blouses,  hard 
tack,  bibles,  strewn  by  the  wayside,  where  the 
soldiers  had  thrown  them  before  they  went  into 
action.  It  was  curious,  but  nearly  all  of  the 
wounded  were  dazed  and  drunken  in  appear 
ance,  except  at  the  brows,  which  were  tightly 
drawn  with  pain.  There  was  one  man,  with 
short,  thick,  upright  red  hair,  stumbling  from 
one  side  of  the  road  to  the  other,  with  no  wound 
apparent,  and  muttering: 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  happened  to  me.  I 
don't  know  what  happened  to  me." 

Another,  hopping  across  the  creek  on  one  leg 
— the  other  bare  and  wounded — and  using  his 
gun,  muzzle  down,  as  a  vaulting-pole.  Another, 
with  his  arm  in  the  sling,  pointing  out  the 
way. 

"Take  this  road,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know 
where  that  one  goes,  but  I  know  this  one.  I 


CRITTENDEN 

went  up  this  one,  and  brought  back  a  souvenir" 
he  added,  cheerily,  shaking  a  bloody  arm. 

And  everywhere  men  were  cautioning  him  to 
beware  of  the  guerillas,  who  were  in  the  trees, 
adding  horror  to  the  scene — shooting  wounded 
men  on  litters,  hospital  men,  doctors.  Once, 
there  was  almost  the  horror  of  a  panic  in  the 
crowded  road.  Soldiers  answered  the  guerilla 
fire  from  the  road;  men  came  running  back; 
bullets  spattered  around. 

Ahead,  the  road  was  congested  with  soldiers. 
Beyond  them  was  anchored  the  balloon,  over 
the  Bloody  Ford — drawing  the  Spanish  fire  to 
the  troops  huddled  beneath  it.  There  was  the 
death-trap. 

And,  climbing  from  an  ambulance  to  mount 
his  horse,  a  little,  bent  old  man,  weak  and 
trembling  from  fever,  but  with  his  gentle  blue 
eyes  glinting  fire — Basil's  hero — ex-Confederate 
Jerry  Carter. 

"Give  the  Yanks  hell,  boys,"  he  shouted. 

It  had  been  a  slow,  toilsome  march  up  that 
narrow  lane  of  death,  and,  so  far,  Crittenden 
had  merely  been  sprinkled  with  Mauser  and 
shrapnel.  His  regiment  had  begun  to  deploy  to 
the  left,  down  the  bed  of  a  stream.  The  negro 
cavalry  and  the  Rough  Riders  were  deploying 
to  the  right.  Now  broke  the  storm.  Imagine 

153 


CRITTENDEN 

sheet  after  sheet  of  hailstones,  coated  with 
polished  steel,  and  swerved  when  close  to  the 
earth  at  a  sharp  angle  to  the  line  of  descent, 
and  sweeping  the  air  horizontally  with  an  awful 
hiss — swifter  in  flight  than  a  peal  of  thunder 
from  sky  to  earth,  and  hardly  less  swift  than  the 
lightning  flash  that  caused  it. 

"  T-t-seu-u-u-h !  T-t-seu-oo !  T-t-seu-oo ! " — 
they  went  like  cloud  after  cloud  of  lightning- 
winged  insects,  and  passing,  by  God's  mercy 
and  the  Spaniard's  bad  marksmanship — passing 
high.  Between  two  crashes,  came  a  sudden 
sputter,  and  some  singing  thing  began  to  play 
up  and  down  through  the  trees,  and  to  right  and 
left,  in  a  steady  hum.  It  was  a  machine  gun 
playing  for  the  range — like  a  mighty  hose  pipe, 
watering  earth  and  trees  with  a  steady,  spread 
ing  jet  of  hot  lead.  It  was  like  some  strange, 
huge  monster,  unseeing  and  unseen,  who  knows 
where  his  prey  is  hidden  and  is  searching  for  it 
blindly — by  feeling  or  by  sense  of  smell — coming 
ever  nearer,  showering  the  leaves  down,  patting 
into  the  soft  earth  ahead,  swishing  to  right  and 
to  left,  and  at  last  playing  in  a  steady  stream 
about  the  prostrate  soldiers. 

"Swish-ee!    Swish-ee!    Swishee!" 

"Whew!"  said  Abe  Long. 

"God!"  said  Reynolds. 

Ah,  ye  scornful  veterans  of  the  great  war. 

154 


CRITTENDEN 

In  ten  minutes  the  Spaniard  let  fly  with  his 
Mauser  more  bullets  than  did  you  fighting  hard 
for  two  long  hours,  and  that  one  machine  gun 
loosed  more  death  stings  in  an  hour  than  did  a 
regiment  of  you  in  two.  And  they  were  coming 
from  intrenchments  on  an  all  but  vertical  hill, 
from  piles  of  unlimited  ammunition,  and  from 
soldiers  who  should  have  been  as  placid  as  the 
earth  under  them  for  all  the  demoralization  that 
hostile  artillery  fire  was  causing  them. 

And  not  all  of  them  passed  high.  After  that 
sweep  of  glistening  steel  rain  along  the  edge  of 
the  woods  rose  the  cry  here,  there,  everywhere: 

"Hospital  man!  hospital  man!" 

And  here  and  there,  in  the  steady  pelt  of  bul 
lets,  went  the  quiet,  brave  fellows  with  red 
crosses  on  their  sleeves;  across  the  creek,  Crit- 
tenden  could  see  a  tall,  young  doctor,  bareheaded 
in  the  sun,  stretching  out  limp  figures  on  the 
sand  under  the  bank — could  see  him  and  his 
assistants  stripping  off  blouse  and  trousers  and 
shirt,  and  wrapping  and  binding,  and  newly 
wTounded  being  ever  brought  in. 

And  behind  forged  soldiers  forward,  a  tall  aide 
at  the  ford  urging  them  across  and  stopping  a 
panic  among  volunteers. 

"Come  back,  you  cowards — come  back!  Push 
'em  back,  boys!" 

A  horse  was  crossing  the  stream.    There  was 


CRITTENDEN 

a  hissing  shriek  in  the  air,  a  geyser  spouting 
from  the  creek,  the  remnants  of  a  horse  thrown 
upward,  and  five  men  tossed  in  a  swirl  like 
straw:  and,  a  moment  later,  a  boy  feebly  pad 
dling  towards  the  shore — while  the  water  ran 
past  him  red  with  blood.  And,  through  it  all, 
looking  backward,  Crittenden  saw  little  Carter 
coming  on  horseback,  calm  of  face,  calm  of 
manner,  with  his  hands  folded  over  his  saddle, 
and  his  eyes  looking  upward — little  Carter  who 
had  started  out  in  an  ambulance  that  morning 
with  a  temperature  of  one  hundred  and  four, 
and,  meeting  wounded  soldiers,  gave  up  his 
wagon  to  them,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode 
into  battle — to  come  out  normal  at  dusk.  And 
behind  him — erect,  proud,  face  aflame,  eyes 
burning,  but  hardly  less  cool — rode  Basil.  Crit- 
tenden's  eyes  filled  with  love  and  pride  for  the 
boy. 

"God  bless  him— God  save  him!" 

A  lull  came — one  of  the  curious  lulls  that 
come  periodically  in  battle  for  the  reason  that 
after  any  violent  effort  men  must  have  a  breath 
ing  spell — and  the  mist  of  bullets  swept  on  to 
the  right  like  a  swift  passing  shower  of  rain. 

There  was  a  splash  in  the  creek  behind  Crit 
tenden,  and  someone  fell  on  his  face  behind  the 
low  bank  with  a  fervent: 

156 


CRITTENDEN 

"Thank  God,  I've  got  this  far!"  It  was 
Graf  ton. 

"That  nigger  of  yours  is  coming  on  some 
where  back  there,"  he  added,  and  presently  he 
rose  and  calmly  peered  over  the  bank  and  at  the 
line  of  yellow  dirt  on  the  crest  of  the  hill.  A 
bullet  spat  in  the  ground  close  by. 

"That  hit  you?"  he  asked,  without  altering 
the  tone  of  his  voice — without  even  lowering  his 
glasses. 

Reynolds,  on  his  right,  had  ducked  quickly. 
Crittenden  looked  up  in  surprise.  The  South 
had  no  monopoly  of  nerve — nor,  in  that  cam 
paign,  the  soldier. 

"Well,  by  God,"  said  Reynolds,  irritably- 
the  bullet  had  gone  through  his  sleeve.  "This 
ain't  no  time  to  joke." 

Grafton's  face  was  still  calm — he  was  still 
looking.  Presently  he  turned  and  beckoned  to 
somebody  in  the  rear. 

"There  he  is,  now." 

Looking  behind,  Crittenden  had  to  laugh. 
There  was  Bob,  in  a  cavalryman's  hat,  with  a 
Krag-Jorgensen  in  his  hand,  and  an  ammuni 
tion  belt  buckled  around  him. 

As  he  started  toward  Grafton,  a  Lieutenant 
halted  him. 

"Why  aren't  you  with  your  regiment?"  he 
demanded  sharply. 

157 


CRITTENDEN 

"I  ain't  got  no  regiment.  I'se  looking  fer 
Ole  Captain." 

"Get  back  into  your  regiment,"  said  the 
officer,  with  an  oath,  and  pointing  behind  to  the 
Tenth  Coloured  Cavalry  coming  up. 

"Huh!"  he  said,  looking  after  the  officer  a 
moment,  and  then  he  came  on  to  the  edge  of  the 
creek. 

"Go  to  the  rear,  Bob,"  shouted  Crittenden, 
sharply,  and  the  next  moment  Bob  was  crashing 
through  the  bushes  to  the  edge  of  the  creek. 

"Foh  Gawd,  Ole  Cap'n,  I  sutn'ly  is  glad  to 
fine  you.  I  wish  you'd  jes  show  me  how  to  wuk 
this  gun.  I'se  gwine  to  fight  right  side  o'  you — 
you  heah  me." 

"Go  back,  Bob,"  said  Crittenden,  firmly. 

"Silence  in  the  ranks,"  roared  a  Lieutenant. 
Bob  hesitated.  Just  then  a  company  of  the 
Tenth  Cavalry  filed  down  the  road  as  they  were 
deployed  to  the  right.  Crittenden's  file  of  sol 
diers  could  see  that  the  last  man  was  a  short, 
fat  darky — evidently  a  recruit — and  he  was 
swinging  along  as  jauntily  as  in  a  cake-walk. 
As  he  wheeled  pompously,  he  dropped  his  gun, 
leaped  into  the  air  with  a  yell  of  amazed  rage 
and  pain,  catching  at  the  seat  of  his  trousers 
with  both  hands.  A  bullet  had  gone  through 
both  buttocks. 

"Gawd,  Oie  Cap'n,  did  you  see  dat  nigger  ?" 


CRITTENDEN 

A  roar  of  laughter  went  down  the  bed  of  the 
creek. 

"Go  back!"  repeated  Crittenden,  threaten 
ingly,  "and  stop  calling  me  Old  Captain." 
Bob  looked  after  the  file  of  coloured  troops,  and 
then  at  Crittenden. 

"All  right,  Ole  Cap'n;  I  tol'  you  in  ole  Ken- 
tuck  that  I  gwine  to  fight  wid  the  niggers  ef 
you  don't  lemme  fight  wid  you.  I  don't  like 
disgracin'  the  family  dis  way,  but  'tain't  my 
fault,  an'  s'pose  you  git  shot — "  the  slap  of  the 
flat  side  of  a  sword  across  Bob's  back  made  him 
jump. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  thundered  an 
angry  officer.  "Get  into  line — get  into  line." 

"I  ain't  no  sojer." 

"Get  into  line,"  and  Bob  ran  after  the  dis 
appearing  file,  shaking  his  head  helplessly. 

The  crash  started  again,  and  the  hum  of 
bees  and  the  soft  snap  of  the  leaves  when  bullets 
clipped  them  like  blows  with  a  rattan  cane,  and 
the  rattling  sputter  of  the  machine  guns,  and 
once  more  came  that  long,  long  wait  that  tries 
the  soldier's  heart,  nerve,  and  brain. 

"Why  was  not  something  done — why?" 

And  again  rose  the  cry  for  the  hospital  men, 
and  again  the  limp  figures  were  brought  in 
from  the  jungle,  and  he  could  see  the  tall  doctor 
with  the  bare  head  helping  the  men  who  had 

159 


CRITTENDEN 

been  dressed  with  a  first-aid  bandage  to  the  pro 
tecting  bank  of  the  creek  farther  up,  to  make 
room  for  the  fresh  victims.  And  as  he  stood  up 
once,  Crittenden  saw  him  throw  his  hand 
quickly  up  to  his  temple  and  sink  to  the  blood 
stained  sand.  The  assistant,  who  bent  over 
him,  looked  up  quickly  and  shook  his  head  to 
another,  who  was  binding  a  wounded  leg  and 
looking  anxiously  to  know  the  fatal  truth. 

"I've  got  it,"  said  a  soldier  to  Crittenden's 
left;  joyously,  he  said  it,  for  the  bullet  had  merely 
gone  through  his  right  shoulder.  He  could  fight 
no  more,  he  had  a  wound  and  he  could  wear  a 
scar  to  his  grave. 

"So  have  I,"  said  another,  with  a  groan. 
And  then  next  him  there  was  a  sudden,  soft 
thud: 

"T-h-u-p!"  It  was  the  sound  of  a  bullet 
going  into  thick  flesh,  and  the  soldier  sprang  to 
his  feet — the  impulse  seemed  uncontrollable  for 
the  wounded  to  spring  to  their  feet — and  dropped 
with  a  groan — dead.  Crittenden  straightened 
him  out  sadly — putting  his  hat  over  his  face  and 
drawing  his  arms  to  his  sides.  Above,  he  saw 
with  sudden  nausea,  buzzards  circling — little 
cared  they  whether  the  dead  were  American  or 
Spaniard,  as  long  as  there  were  eyes  to  pluck 
and  lips  to  tear  away,  and  then  straightway, 
tragedy  merged  into  comedy  as  swiftly  as  on  a 
1 60 


CRITTENDEN 

stage.  Out  of  the  woods  across  the  way  emerged 
a  detail  of  negro  troopers — sent  to  clear  the 
woods  behind  of  sharpshooters — and  last  came 
Bob.  The  detail,  passing  along  the  creek  on 
the  other  bank  from  them,  scattered,  and  with 
Bob  next  the  creek.  Bob  shook  his  gun  aloft. 

"I  can  wuk  her  now!" 

Another  lull  came,  and  from  the  thicket  arose 
the  cry  of  a  thin,  high,  foreign  voice: 

"  Americano — Americano ! " 

"Whut  regiment  you  b'long  to?"  the  voice 
was  a  negro's  and  was  Bob's,  and  Grafton  and 
Crittenden  listened  keenly.  Bob  had  evidently 
got  a  sharpshooter  up  a  tree,  and  caught  him 
loading  his  gun. 

"Tenth  Cav'rly — Tenth!"  was  the  answer. 
Bob  laughed  long  and  loud. 

"Well,  you  jus  the  man  I  been  lookin*  fer — 
the  fust  white  man  I  ever  seed  whut  'longed  to 
a  nigger  regiment.  Come  down,  honey."  There 
was  the  sharp,  clean  crack  of  a  Krag-Jorgensen, 
and  a  yell  of  savage  triumph. 

"That  nigger's  a  bird,"  said  Grafton. 

Something  serious  was  going  to  be  done  now 
— the  intuition  of  it  ran  down  the  line  in  that 
mysterious  fashion  by  which  information  passes 
down  a  line  of  waiting  men.  The  line  rose,  ad 
vanced,  and  dropped  again.  Companies  de 
ployed  to  the  left  and  behind — fighting  their 
161 


CRITTENDEN 

way  through  the  chapparal  as  a  swimmer  buffets 
his  way  through  choppy  waves.  Every  man 
saw  now  that  the  brigade  was  trying  to  form  in 
line  of  battle  for  a  charge  on  that  curving, 
smokeless  flame  of  fire  that  ran  to  and  fro 
around  the  top  of  the  hill — blazing  fiercely  and 
steadily  here  and  there.  For  half  an  hour  the 
officers  struggled  to  form  the  scattering  men. 
Forward  a  little  way;  slipping  from  one  bush  and 
tree  to  another;  through  the  thickets  and  bay 
onet  grass;  now  creeping;  now  a  dash  through 
an  open  spot;  now  flat  on  the  stomach,  until 
Crittenden  saw  a  wire  fence  stretching  ahead. 
Followed  another  wait.  And  then  a  squad  of 
negro  troopers  crossed  the  road,  going  to  the 
right,  and  diagonally.  The  bullets  rained  about 
them,  and  they  scuttled  swiftly  into  the  brush. 
The  hindmost  one  dropped;  the  rest  kept  on, 
unseeing;  but  Crittenden  saw  a  Lieutenant — it 
was  Sharpe,  whom  he  had  met  at  home  and  at 
Chickamauga — look  back  at  the  soldier,  who 
was  trying  to  raise  himself  on  his  elbow — while 
the  bullets  seemed  literally  to  be  mowing  down 
the  tall  grass  about  him.  Then  Crittenden 
heard  a  familiar  grunt  behind  him,  and  the  next 
minute  Bob's  figure  sprang  out  into  the  open — 
making  for  the  wounded  man  by  the  sympathy 
of  race.  As  he  stooped,  to  Crittenden's  horror, 
Bob  pitched  to  the  ground — threshing  around 
162 


CRITTENDEN 

like  an  animal  that  has  received  a  blow  on  the 
head.  Without  a  thought,  without  conscious 
ness  of  his  own  motive  or  his  act,  Crittenden 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  dashed  for  Bob.  Within 
ten  feet  of  the  boy,  his  toe  caught  in  a  root  and 
he  fell  headlong.  As  he  scrambled  to  his  feet, 
he  saw  Sharpe  making  for  him — thinking  that 
he  had  been  shot  down — and,  as  he  turned,  with 
Bob  in  his  arms,  half  a  dozen  men,  including 
Grafton  and  his  own  Lieutenant,  were  retreat 
ing  back  into  cover — all  under  the  same  impulse 
and  with  the  same  motive  having  started  for 
him,  too.  Behind  a  tree,  Crittenden  laid  Bob 
down,  still  turning  his  head  from  side  to  side 
helplessly.  There  was  a  trail  of  blood  across  his 
temple,  and,  wiping  it  away,  he  saw  that  the 
bullet  had  merely  scraped  along  the  skull  with 
out  penetrating  it.  In  a  moment,  Bob  groaned, 
opened  his  eyes,  sat  up,  looked  around  with 
rolling  eyes,  grunted  once  or  twice,  straightened 
out,  and  reached  for  his  gun,  shaking  his  head. 

"Gimme  drink,  Ole  Cap'n,  please,  suh." 

Crittenden  handed  him  his  canteen,  and  Bob 
drank  and  rose  unsteadily  to  his  feet. 

"Dat  ain't  nuttin',"  he  said,  contemptuously, 
feeling  along  the  wound.  '  'Tain't  nigh  as  bad 
as  mule  kick.  Tain't  nuttin',  't  all."  And  then 
he  almost  fell. 

"Go  back,  Bob." 

163 


CRITTENDEN 

"All  right,  Ole  Cap'n,  I  reckon  I'll  jus'  lay 
down  heah  little  while,"  he  said,  stretching  out 
behind  the  tree. 

And  Grafton  reached  over  for  Crittenden's 
hand.  He  was  getting  some  new  and  startling 
ideas  about  the  difference  in  the  feeling  toward 
the  negro  of  the  man  who  once  owned  him  body 
and  soul  and  of  the  man  who  freed  him  body 
and  soul.  And  in  the  next  few  minutes  he 
studied  Crittenden  as  he  had  done  before — tak 
ing  in  detail  the  long  hair,  lean  face  strongly 
chiselled,  fearless  eye,  modest  demeanour — 
marking  the  intellectual  look  of  the  face — it  was 
the  face  of  a  student — a  gentleman — gently 
born.  And,  there  in  the  heat  of  the  fight,  he  fell 
to  marvelling  over  the  nation  that  had  such  a 
man  to  send  into  the  field  as  a  common  soldier. 

Again  they  moved  forward.  Crittenden's 
Lieutenant  dropped — wounded. 

"Go  on,"  he  cried,  "damn  it,  go  on!" 

Grafton  helped  to  carry  him  back,  stepping 
out  into  the  open  for  him,  and  Crittenden  saw 
a  bullet  lick  up  the  wet  earth  between  the  cor 
respondent's  feet. 

Forward  again!  It  was  a  call  for  volunteers 
to  advance  and  cut  the  wires.  Crittenden  was 
the  first  to  spring  to  his  feet,  and  Abe  Long  and 
Reynolds  sprang  after  him.  Forward  they 
slipped  on  their  bellies,  and  the  men  behind  saw 
164 


CRITTENDEN 

one  brown,  knotty  hand  after  another  reach  up 
from  the  grass  and  clip,  clip,  clip  through  the 
thickly  braided  wires. 

Forward  again!  The  men  slipped  like  eels 
through  and  under  the  wires,  and  lay  in  the 
long  grass  behind.  The  time  was  come. 

"FORWARD!" 

Crittenden  never  knew  before  the  thrill  that 
blast  sent  through  him,  and  never  in  his  life  did 
he  know  it  again. 

It  was  the  call  of  America  to  the  American, 
white  and  black:  and  race  and  colour  forgotten, 
the  American  answered  with  the  grit  of  the 
Saxon,  the  Celt's  pure  love  of  a  fight,  and  all  the 
dash  of  the  passionate  Gaul. 

As  Crittenden  leaped  to  his  feet,  he  saw  Rey 
nolds  leap,  too,  and  then  there  was  a  hissing  hell 
of  white  smoke  and  crackling  iron  at  his  feet — 
and  Reynolds  disappeared. 

It  was  a  marvel  afterward  but,  at  that  mo 
ment,  Crittenden  hardly  noted  that  the  poor 
fellow  was  blown  into  a  hundred  fragments. 
He  was  in  the  front  line  now.  A  Brigadier,  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand  and  his  white  hair  shining  in 
the  sun,  run  diagonally  across  in  front  of  his 
line  of  battle,  and,  with  a  wild  cheer,  the  run 
of  death  began. 

God,  how  the  bullets  hissed  and  the  shells 
shrieked;  and,  God,  how  slow — slow — slow  was 

165 


CRITTENDEN 

the  run!  Crittenden's  legs  were  of  lead,  and 
leaden  were  the  legs  of  the  men  with  him — run 
ning  with  guns  trailing  the  earth  or  caught 
tightly  across  the  breast  and  creeping  uncon 
sciously.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  men  in  front 
of  him,  the  men  who  were  dropping  behind  him, 
and  the  yellow  line  above,  and  the  haven  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill.  Now  and  then  he  could  see  a 
little,  dirty,  blue  figure  leap  into  view  on  the  hill 
and  disappear.  Two  men  only  were  ahead  of 
him  when  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill — 
Sharpe  and  a  tall  Cuban  close  at  his  side  with 
machete  drawn — the  one  Cuban  hero  of  that 
fierce  charge.  But  he  could  hear  laboured  pant 
ing  behind  him,  and  he  knew  that  others  were 
coming  on.  God,  how  steep  and  high  that  hill 
was!  He  was  gasping  for  breath  now,  and  he 
was  side  by  side  with  Cuban  and  Lieutenant — 
gasping,  too.  To  right  and  left — faint  cheers. 
To  the  right,  a  machine  gun  playing  like  hail  on 
the  yellow  dirt.  To  his  left  a  shell,  bursting  in 
front  of  a  climbing,  struggling  group,  and  the 
soldiers  tumbling  backward  and  rolling  ten  feet 
down  the  hill.  A  lull  in  the  firing — the  Span 
iards  were  running — and  then  the  top — the  top! 
Sharpe  sprang  over  the  trench,  calling  out  to  save 
the  wounded.  A  crouching  Spaniard  raised  his 
pistol,  and  Sharpe  fell.  With  one  leap,  Crit- 
tenden  reached  him  with  the  butt  of  his  gun 
166 


CRITTENDEN 

and,  with  savage  exultation,  he  heard  the  skull 
of  the  Spaniard  crash. 

Straight  in  front,  the  Spaniards  were  running 
like  rabbits  through  the  brush.  To  the  left, 
Kent  was  charging  far  around  and  out  of  sight. 
To  the  right,  Rough  Riders  and  negroes  were 
driving  Spaniards  down  one  hill  and  up  the 
next.  The  negroes  were  as  wild  as  at  a  camp 
meeting  or  a  voodoo  dance.  One  big  Sergeant 
strode  along  brandishing  in  each  hand  a  piece 
of  his  carbine  that  had  been  shot  in  two  by  a 
Mauser  bullet,  and  shouting  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  contemptuously: 

"Heah,  somebody,  gimme  a  gun!  gimme  a 
gun,  I  tell  ye,"  still  striding  ahead  and  looking 
never  behind  him.  "You  don't  know  how  to 
fight.  Gimme  a  gun!"  To  the  negro's  left,  a 
young  Lieutenant  was  going  up  the  hill  with 
naked  sword  in  one  hand  and  a  kodak  in  the 
other — taking  pictures  as  he  ran.  A  bare 
headed  boy,  running  between  him  and  a  gigantic 
negro  trooper,  toppled  suddenly  and  fell,  and 
another  negro  stopped  in  the  charge,  and,  with 
a  groan,  bent  over  him  and  went  no  farther. 

And  all  the  time  that  machine  gun  was  play 
ing  on  the  trenches  like  a  hard  rain  in  summer 
dust.  Whenever  a  Spaniard  would  leap  from 
the  trench,  he  fell  headlong.  That  pitiless  fire 

167 


CRITTENDEN 

kept  in  the  trenches  the  Spaniards  who  were 
found  there — wretched,  pathetic,  half-starved 
little  creatures — and  some  terrible  deeds  were 
done  in  the  lust  of  slaughter.  One  gaunt  fellow 
thrust  a  clasp-knife  into  the  buttock  of  a  sham 
ming  Spaniard,  and,  when  he  sprang  to  his  feet, 
blew  the  back  of  his  head  off.  Some  of  the 
Riders  chased  the  enemy  over  the  hill  and  lay 
down  in  the  shade.  One  of  them  pulled  out  of 
a  dead  Spaniard's  pocket  cigarettes,  cigars,  and 
a  lady's  slipper  of  white  satin;  with  a  grunt  he 
put  the  slipper  back.  Below  the  trenches,  two 
boyish  prisoners  sat  under  a  tree,  crying  as 
though  they  were  broken-hearted,  and  a  big 
trooper  walked  up  and  patted  them  both  kindly 
on  the  head. 

"Don't  cry,  boys;  it's  all  right — all  right,"  he 
said,  helplessly. 

Over  at  the  block-house,  Crittenden  stopped 
firing  suddenly,  and,  turning  to  his  men,  shouted: 

"Get  back  over  the  hill  boys,  they're  going 
to  start  in  again."  As  they  ran  back,  a  Lieuten 
ant-Colonel  met  them. 

"Are  you  in  command?" 

Crittenden  saluted. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  old  Sergeant  at  his  side 
"He  was.    He  brought  these  men  up  the  hill/" 
168 


CRITTENDEN 

"The  hell  he  did.  Where  are  your  officers  ?" 
The  old  Sergeant  motioned  toward  the  valley 
below,  and  Crittenden  opened  his  lips  to  explain, 
but  just  then  the  sudden  impression  came  to  him 
that  some  one  had  struck  him  from  behind  with 
the  butt  of  a  musket,  and  he  tried  to  wheel 
around — his  face  amazed  and  wondering.  Then 
he  dropped.  He  wondered,  too,  why  he  couldn't 
get  around,  and  then  he  wondered  how  it  was 
that  he  happened  to  be  falling  to  the  earth. 
Darkness  came  then,  and  through  it  ran  one  bit 
ter  thought — he  had  been  shot  in  the  back.  He 
did  think  of  his  mother  and  of  Judith — but  it 
was  a  fleeting  vision  of  both,  and  his  main 
thought  was  a  dull  wonder  whether  there  would 
be  anybody  to  explain  how  it  was  that  his 
wound  was  not  in  front.  And  then,  as  he  felt 
himself  lifted,  it  flashed  that  he  would  at  least 
be  found  on  top  of  the  hill,  and  beyond  the 
Spaniard's  trench,  and  he  saw  Blackford's  face 
above  him.  Then  he  was  dropped  heavily  to 
the  ground  again  and  Blackford  pitched  across 
his  body.  There  was  one  glimpse  of  Abe  Long's 
anxious  face  above  him,  another  vision  of  Ju 
dith,  and  then  quiet,  painless  darkness. 

It   was    fiercer    firing   now   than    ever.    The* 
Spaniards  were  in  the  second  line  of  trenches 
and  were  making  a  sortie.     Under  the  hill  sat 
169 


CRITTENDEN 

Grafton  and  another  correspondent  while  the 
storm  of  bullets  swept  over  them.  Grafton  was 
without  glasses — a  Mauser  had  furrowed  the 
skin  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  breaking  his 
spectacle-frame  so  that  one  glass  dropped  on 
one  side  of  his  nose  and  the  other  on  the  other. 
The  other  man  had  several  narrow  squeaks,  as 
he  called  them,  and,  even  as  they  sat,  a  bullet 
cut  a  leaf  over  his  head  and  it  dropped  between 
the  pages  of  his  note-book.  He  closed  the  book 
and  looked  up. 

"Thanks,"   he  said.      "That's  just  what   I 
want — I'll  keep  that." 

"I  observe,"  said  Grafton,  "that  the  way  one 
of  these  infernal  bullets  sounds  depends  en 
tirely  on  where  you  happen  to  be  when  you  hear 
it.  When  a  sharp-shooter  has  picked  you  out 
and  is  plugging  at  you,  they  are  intelligent  and 
vindictive.  Coming  through  that  bottom,  they 
were  for  all  the  world  like  a  lot  of  nasty  little 
insects.  And  listen  to  'em  now."  The  other 
man  listened.  "  Hear  'em  as  they  pass  over  and 
go  out  of  hearing.  That  is  for  all  the  world 
like  the  last  long  note  of  a  meadow  lark's  song 
when  you  hear  him  afar  off  and  at  sunset.  But 
I  notice  that  simile  didn't  occur  to  me  until  I 
got  under  the  lee  of  this  hill."  He  looked  around. 
"This  hill  will  be  famous,  I  suppose.  Let's  go 
up  higher."  They  went  up  higher,  passing  a 
170 


CRITTENDEN 

crowd  of  skulkers,  or  men  in  reserve — Grafton 
could  not  tell  which — and  as  they  went  by  a  sol 
dier  said: 

"Well,  if  I  didn't  have  to  be  here,  I  be 
damned  if  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  anybody  get 
me  here.  What  them  fellers  come  fer,  I  can't 


see." 


The  firing  was  still  hot  when  the  two  men  got 
up  to  the  danger  line,  and  there  they  lay  down. 
A  wounded  man  lay  at  Grafton's  elbow.  Once 
his  throat  rattled  and  Grafton  turned  curiously. 

"That's  the  death-rattle,"  he  said  to  himself, 
and  he  had  never  heard  a  death-rattle  before. 
The  poor  fellow's  throat  rattled  again,  and  again 
Grafton  turned. 

"I  never  knew  before,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"that  a  dying  man's  throat  rattled  but  once." 
Then  it  flashed  on  him  with  horror  that  he 
should  have  so  little  feeling,  and  he  knew  it  at 
once  as  the  curious  callousness  that  comes 
quickly  to  toughen  the  heart  for  the  sights  of 
war.  A  man  killed  in  battle  was  not  an  ordinary 
dead  man  at  all — he  stirred  no  sensation  at  all — 
no  more  than  a  dead  animal.  Already  he  had 
heard  officers  remarking  calmly  to  one  another, 
and  apparently  without  feeling: 

"Well,  So  and  So  was  killed  to-day."  And 
he  looked  back  to  the  disembarkation,  when  the 
army  was  simply  in  a  hurry.  Two  negro  troop- 


CRITTENDEN 

ers  were  drowned  trying  to  get  off  on  the  little 
pier.  They  were  fished  up;  a  rope  was  tied 
about  the  neck  of  each,  and  they  were  lashed  to 
the  pier  and  left  to  be  beaten  against  the  wooden 
pillars  by  the  waves  for  four  hours  before  four 
comrades  came  and  took  them  out  and  buried 
them.  Such  was  the  dreadful  callousness  that 
sweeps  through  the  human  heart  when  war 
begins,  and  he  was  under  its  influence  himself, 
and  long  afterward  he  remembered  with  shame 
his  idle  and  half-scientific  and  useless  curiosity 
about  the  wounded  man  at  his  elbow.  As  he 
turned  his  head,  the  soldier  gave  a  long,  deep, 
peaceful  sigh,  as  though  he  had  gone  to  sleep. 
With  pity  now  Grafton  turned  to  him — and  he 
had  gone  to  sleep,  but  it  was  his  last  sleep. 

"Look,"  said  the  other  man.  Grafton  looked 
upward.  Along  the  trenches,  and  under  a  hot 
fire,  moved  little  Jerry  Carter,  with  figure  bent, 
hands  clasped  behind  him — with  the  manner, 
for  all  the  world,  of  a  deacon  in  a  country  grave 
yard  looking  for  inscriptions  on  tombstones. 

Now  and  then  a  bullet  would  have  a  hoarse 
sound — that  meant  that  it  had  ricochetted.  At 
intervals  of  three  or  four  minutes  a  huge,  old- 
fashioned  projectile  would  labour  through  the 
air,  visible  all  the  time,  and  crash  harmlessly 
into  the  woods.  The  Americans  called  it  the 
"long  yellow  feller,"  and  sometimes  a  negro 

172 


CRITTENDEN 

trooper  would  turn  and  with  a  yell  shoot  at  it 
as  it  passed  over.  A  little  way  off,  a  squad  of 
the  Tenth  Cavalry  was  digging  a  trench — close 
to  the  top  of  the  hill.  Now  and  then  one  would 
duck — particularly  the  one  on  the  end.  He  had 
his  tongue  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  was  twirl 
ing  his  pick  over  his  shoulder  like  a  railroad 
hand,  and  grunting  with  every  stroke.  Grafton 
could  hear  him. 

"Foh  Gawd  (huh!)  never  thought  (huh!) I'd 
git  to  love  (huh!)  a  pick  befoh!"  Grafton  broke 
into  a  laugh. 

"You  see  the  charge?" 

"Part  of  it." 

"That  tall  fellow  with  the  blue  handkerchief 
around  his  throat,  bare-headed,  long  hair?" 

"Well — "  the  other  man  stopped  for  a  mo 
ment.  His  eye  had  caught  sight  of  a  figure  on 
the  ground — on  the  top  of  the  trench,  and  with 
the  profile  of  his  face  between  him  and  the  after 
glow,  and  his  tone  changed — "there  he  is!" 

Grafton  pressed  closer.  "What,  that  the  fel 
low?"  There  was  the  handkerchief,  the  head 
was  bare,  the  hair  long  and  dark.  The  man's 
eyes  were  closed,  but  he  was  breathing.  Below 
them  at  that  moment  they  heard  the  surgeon  say: 

"Up  there."  And  two  hospital  men,  with  a 
litter,  came  toward  them  and  took  up  the  body. 
As  they  passed,  Grafton  recoiled. 

173 


CRITTENDEN 

"Good  God!"    It  was  Crittenden. 

And,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  trench,  with 
Sharpe  lying  with  his  face  on  his  arm  a  few  feet 
away,  and  the  tall  Cuban  outstretched  beside 
him,  and  the  dead  Spaniards,  Americans,  and 
Cubans  about  them,  Grafton  told  the  story  of 
Crittenden.  And  at  the  end  the  other  man  gave 
a  low  whistle  and  smote  the  back  of  one  hand 
into  the  palm  of  the  other  softly. 

Dusk  fell  quickly.  The  full  moon  rose.  The 
stars  came  out,  and  under  them,  at  the  foot  of 
the  big  mountains,  a  red  fire  burned  sharply  out 
in  the  mist  rising  over  captured  Caney,  from 
which  tireless  ChafFee  was  already  starting  his 
worn-out  soldiers  on  an  all-night  march  by  the 
rear  and  to  the  trenches  at  San  Juan.  And  along 
the  stormed  hill-side  camp-fires  were  glowing 
out  where  the  lucky  soldiers  who  had  rations  to 
cook  were  cheerily  frying  bacon  and  hardtack. 
Grafton  moved  down  to  watch  one  squad  and, 
as  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  firelight,  wonder 
ing  at  the  cheery  talk  and  joking  laughter,  some 
body  behind  him  said  sharply: 

"Watch  out,  there,"  and  he  turned  to  find 
himself  on  the  edge  of  a  grave  which  a  detail 
was  digging  not  ten  yards  away  from  the  fire — 
digging  for  a  dead  comrade.  Never  had  he  seen 
a  more  peaceful  moonlit  night  than  the  night 
that  closed  over  the  battlefield.  It  was  hard  for 

174 


CRITTENDEN 

him  to  realize  that  the  day  had  not  been  a  ter 
rible  dream,  and  yet,  as  the  moon  rose,  its  rich 
light,  he  knew,  was  stealing  into  the  guerilla- 
haunted  jungles,  stealing  through  guava-bush 
and  mango-tree,  down  through  clumps  of  Span 
ish  bayonet,  on  stiff  figures  that  would  rise  no 
more;  on  white,  set  faces  with  the  peace  of  pain 
less  death  upon  them  or  the  agony  of  silent 
torture,  fought  out  under  fierce  heat  and  in  the 
silence  of  the  jungle  alone. 

Looking  toward  Caney  he  could  even  see  the 
hill  from  which  he  had  witnessed  the  flight  of 
the  first  shell  that  had  been  the  storm  centre  of 
the  hurricane  of  death  that  had  swept  all  through 
the  white,  cloudless  day.  It  burst  harmlessly — 
that  shell — and  meant  no  more  than  a  signal  to 
fire  to  the  soldiers  closing  in  on  Caney,  the 
Cubans  lurking  around  a  block-house  at  a  safe 
artillery  distance  in  the  woods  and  to  the  im 
patient  battery  before  San  Juan.  Retrospec 
tively  now,  it  meant  the  death-knell  of  brave 
men,  the  quick  cry  and  long  groaning  of  the 
wounded,  the  pained  breathing  of  sick  and 
fever-stricken,  the  quickened  heart-beats  of  the 
waiting  and  anxious  at  home — the  low  sobbing 
of  the  women  to  whom  fatal  news  came.  It 
meant  Cervera's  gallant  dash,  Sampson  and 
Schley's  great  victory,  the  fall  of  Santiago;  free 
dom  for  Cuba,  a  quieter  sleep  for  the  Maine 

'75 


CRITTENDEN 

dead,  and  peace  with  Spain.  Once  more,  as  he 
rose,  he  looked  at  the  dark  woods,  the  dead- 
haunted  jungles  which  the  moon  was  draping 
with  a  more  than  mortal  beauty,  and  he  knew 
that  in  them,  as  in  the  long  grass  of  the  orchard- 
like  valley  below  him,  comrade  was  looking  for 
dead  comrade.  And  among  the  searchers  was 
the  faithful  Bob,  looking  for  his  Old  Captain, 
Crittenden,  his  honest  heart  nigh  to  bursting, 
for  already  he  had  found  Raincrow  torn  with  a 
shell  and  he  had  borne  a  body  back  to  the 
horror-haunted  little  hospital  under  the  creek 
bank  at  the  Bloody  Ford — a  body  from  which 
the  head  hung  over  his  shoulder — limp,  with  a 
bullet-hole  through  the  neck — the  body  of  his 
Young  Captain,  Basil. 


XII 


RAFTON  sat,  sobered  and  saddened,  where 
he  was  awhile.  The  moon  swung  upward 
white  and  peaceful,  toward  mild-eyed  stars. 
Crickets  chirped  in  the  grass  around  him,  and 
nature's  low  night-music  started  in  the  wood 
and  the  valley  below,  as  though  the  earth  had 
never  known  the  hell  of  fire  and  human  passion 
that  had  rocked  it  through  that  day.  Was  there 
so  much  difference  between  the  creatures  of  the 
earth  and  the  creatures  of  his  own  proud  estate  ? 
Had  they  not  both  been  on  the  same  brute  level 
that  day  ?  And,  save  for  the  wounded  and  the 
men  who  had  comrades  wounded  and  dead, 
were  not  the  unharmed  as  careless,  almost  as  in 
different  as  cricket  and  tree-toad  to  the  tragedies 
of  their  sphere  ?  Had  there  been  any  inner 
change  in  any  man  who  had  fought  that  day  that 
was  not  for  the  worse  ?  Would  he  himself  get 
normal  again,  he  wondered  ?  Was  there  one 
sensitive  soul  who  fully  realized  the  horror  of 
that  day  ?  If  so,  he  would  better  have  been  at 
home.  The  one  fact  that  stood  above  every 
thought  that  had  come  to  him  that  day  was  the 
177 


CRITTENDEN 

utter,  the  startling  insignificance  of  death. 
Could  that  mean  much  more  than  a  startlingly 
sudden  lowering  of  the  estimate  put  upon  human 
life  ?  Across  the  hollow  behind  him  and  from 
a  tall  palm  over  the  Spanish  trenches,  rose,  loud 
and  clear,  the  night-song  of  a  mocking-bird. 
Over  there  the  little  men  in  blue  were  toiling, 
toiling,  toiling  at  their  trenches;  and  along  the 
crest  of  the  hill  the  big  men  in  blue  were  toiling, 
toiling,  toiling  at  theirs.  All  through  the  night 
anxious  eyes  would  be  strained  for  Chaffee,  and 
at  dawn  the  slaughter  would  begin  again.  Wher 
ever  he  looked,  he  could  see  with  his  mind's  eye 
stark  faces  in  the  long  grass  of  the  valley  and 
the  Spanish-bayonet  clumps  in  the  woods.  All 
day  he  had  seen  them  there — dying  of  thirst, 
bleeding  to  death — alone.  As  he  went  down  the 
hill,  lights  were  moving  along  the  creek  bed.  A 
row  of  muffled  dead  lay  along  the  bed  of  the 
creek.  Yet  they  were  still  bringing  in  dead  and 
wounded — a  dead  officer  with  his  will  and  a 
letter  to  his  wife  clasped  in  his  hand.  He  had 
lived  long  enough  to  write  them.  Hollow-eyed 
surgeons  were  moving  here  and  there.  Up  the 
bank  of  the  creek,  a  voice  rose: 

"Come  on,  boys" — appealingly — "you're  not 
going  back  on  me.  Come  on,  you  cursed  cow 
ards!  Good!  Good!  I  take  it  back,  boys. 
Now  we've  got  'em!" 

178 


CRITTENDEN 

Another  voice :  "  Kill  me,  somebody — kill  me. 
For  God's  sake,  kill  me.  Won't  -somebody  give 
me  a  pistol  ?  God — God.  .  .  ." 

Once  Grafton  started  into  a  tent.  On  the 
first  cot  lay  a  handsome  boy,  with  a  white,  frank 
face  and  a  bullet  hole  through  his  neck,  and  he 
recognized  the  dashing  little  fellow  whom  he  had 
seen  splashing  through  the  Bloody  Ford  at  a 
gallop,  dropping  from  his  horse  at  a  barbed-wire 
fence,  and  dashing  on  afoot  with  the  Rough 
Riders.  The  face  bore  a  strong  likeness  to  the 
face  he  had  seen  on  the  hill — of  the  Kentuckian, 
Crittenden — the  Kentucky  regular,  as  Grafton 
always  mentally  characterized  him — and  he  won 
dered  if  the  boy  were  not  the  brother  of  whom 
he  had  heard.  The  lad  was  still  alive — but  how 
could  he  live  with  that  wound  in  his  throat  ? 
Grafton's  eyes  filled  with  tears:  it  was  horror — 
horror — all  horror. 

Here  and  there  along  the  shadowed  road  lay 
a  lifeless  mule  or  horse  or  a  dead  man.  It  was 
curious,  but  a  man  killed  in  battle  was  not  like 
an  ordinary  dead  man — he  was  no  more  than 
he  was — a  lump  of  clay.  It  was  more  curious 
still  that  one's  pity  seemed  less  acute  for  man 
than  for  horse:  it  was  the  man's  choice  to  take 
the  risk — the  horse  had  no  choice. 

Here  and  there  by  the  roadside  was  a  grave. 
Comrades  had  halted  there  long  enough  to  save 

'79 


CRITTENDEN 

a  comrade  from  the  birds  of  prey.  Every  now 
and  then  he  would  meet  a  pack-train  loaded 
with  ammunition  and  ration  boxes;  or  a  wagon 
drawn  by  six  rnules  and  driven  by  a  swearing, 
fearless,  tireless  teamster.  The  forest  was  ring 
ing  with  the  noise  of  wheels,  the  creaking  of 
harness,  the  shouts  of  teamsters  and  the  guards 
with  them  and  the  officer  in  charge — all  on  the 
way  to  the  working  beavers  on  top  of  the  con 
quered  hill. 

Going  the  other  way  were  the  poor  wounded, 
on  foot,  in  little  groups  of  slowly  moving  twos 
and  threes,  and  in  jolting,  springless  army 
wagons — on  their  way  of  torture  to  more  torture 
in  the  rear.  His  heart  bled  for  them.  And  the 
way  those  men  took  their  suffering!  Some 
times  the  jolting  wagons  were  too  much  for  hu 
man  endurance,  and  soldiers  would  pray  for  the 
driver,  when  he  stopped,  not  to  start  again.  In 
one  ambulance  that  he  overtook,  a  man  groaned. 
"Grit  your  teeth,"  said  another,  an  old  Irish 
sergeant,  sternly — "Grit  your  teeth;  there's 
others  that's  hurt  worse'n  you."  The  Sergeant 
lifted  his  head,  and  a  bandage  showed  that  he 
was  shot  through  the  face,  and  Grafton  heard 
not  another  sound.  But  it  was  the  slightly  hurt 
— the  men  shot  in  the  leg  or  arm — who  made  the 
most  noise.  He  had  seen  three  men  brought  into 
the  hospital  from  San  Juan.  The  surgeon  took 
180 


CRITTENDEN 

the  one  who  was  groaning.  He  had  a  mere 
scratch  on  one  leg.  Another  was  dressed,  and 
while  the  third  sat  silently  on  a  stool,  still  an 
other  was  attended,  and  another,  before  the 
surgeon  turned  to  the  man  who  was  so  patiently 
awaiting  his  turn. 

"Where  are  you  hurt?" 

The  man  pointed  to  his  left  side. 

"Through?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

That  day  he  had  seen  a  soldier  stagger  out 
from  the  firing-line  with  half  his  face  shot  away 
and  go  staggering  to  the  rear  without  aid.  On 
the  way  he  met  a  mounted  staff  officer,  and  he 
raised  his  hand  to  his  hatless,  bleeding  forehead, 
in  a  stern  salute  and,  without  a  gesture  for  aid, 
staggered  on.  The  officer's  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"Lieutenant,"  said  a  trooper,  just  after  the 
charge  on  the  trenches,  "I  think  I'm  wounded." 

"Can  you  get  to  the  rear  without  help  ?" 

"I  think  I  can,  sir,"  and  he  started.  After 
twenty  paces  he  pitched  forward — dead.  His 
wound  was  through  the  heart. 

At  the  divisional  hospital  were  more  lights, 
tents,  surgeons,  stripped  figures  on  the  tables 
under  the  lights;  rows  of  figures  in  darkness 
outside  the  tents;  and  rows  of  muffled  shapes 
behind;  the  smell  of  anaesthetics  and  cleansing 
181 


CRITTENDEN 

fluids;  heavy  breathing,  heavy  groaning,  and  an 
occasional  curse  on  the  night  air. 

Beyond  him  was  a  stretch  of  moonlit  road  and 
coming  toward  him  was  a  soldier,  his  arm  in  a 
sling,  and  staggering  weakly  from  side  to  side. 
With  a  start  of  pure  gladness  he  saw  that  it  was 
Crittenden,  and  he  advanced  with  his  hand  out 
stretched. 

"Are  you  badly  hurt?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Crittenden,  pointing  to  his 
hand  and  arm,  but  not  mentioning  the  bullet 
through  his  chest. 

"Oh,  but  Fm  glad.  I  thought  you  were  gone 
sure  when  I  saw  you  laid  out  on  the  hill." 

"Oh,  I  am  all  right,"  he  said,  and  his  manner 
was  as  courteous  as  though  he  had  been  in  a 
drawing-room;  but,  in  spite  of  his  nonchalance, 
Grafton  saw  him  stagger  when  he  moved  off. 

"I  say,  you  oughtn't  to  be  walking,"  he  called. 
"Let  me  help  you,"  but  Crittenden  waved  him 
off. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  he  repeated,  and  then  he 
stopped.  "Do  you  know  where  the  hospital 
is?" 

"God!"  said  Grafton  softly,  and  he  ran  back 
and  put  his  arm  around  the  soldier — Crittenden 
laughing  weakly: 

"I  missed  it  somehow." 

"Yes,  it's  back  here,"  said  Grafton  gently, 
182 


CRITTENDEN 

and  he  saw  now  that  the  soldier's  eyes  were 
dazed  and  that  he  breathed  heavily  and  leaned 
on  him,  laughing  and  apologizing  now  and  then 
with  a  curious  shame  at  his  weakness.  As  they 
turned  from  the  road  at  the  hospital  entrance, 
Crittenden  dropped  to  the  ground. 

"Thank  you,  but  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  rest 
a  little  while  now.  I'm  all  right  now — don't 
bother — don't — bother.  I'm  all  right.  I  feel 
kind  o'  sleepy — somehow — very  kind — thank — " 
and  he  closed  his  eyes.  A  surgeon  was  passing 
and  Grafton  called  him. 

"He's  all  right,"  said  the  surgeon,  with  a 
swift  look,  adding  shortly,  "but  he  must  take 
his  turn." 

Grafton  passed  on — sick.  On  along  the 
muddy  road — through  more  pack-trains,  wag 
ons,  shouts,  creakings,  cursings.  On  through 
the  beautiful  moonlight  night  and  through  the 
beautiful  tropical  forest,  under  tall  cocoanut 
and  taller  palm;  on  past  the  one  long  grave  of 
the  Rough  Riders — along  the  battle-line  of  the 
first  little  fight — through  the  ghastly,  many- 
coloured  masses  of  hideous  land-crabs  shuffling 
sidewise  into  the  cactus  and  shuffling  on  with 
an  unearthly  rustling  of  dead  twig  and  fallen 
leaf:  along  the  crest  of  the  foot-hills  and  down 
to  the  little  town  of  Siboney,  lighted,  bustling 
with  preparation  for  the  wounded  in  the  tents; 

183 


CRITTENDEN 

bustling  at  the  beach  with  the  unloading  of 
rations,  the  transports  moving  here  and  there 
far  out  on  the  moonlighted  sea.  Down  there 
were  straggler,  wounded  soldier,  teamster,  mule- 
packer,  refugee  Cuban,  correspondent,  nurse, 
doctor,  surgeon — the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the 
battle  of  the  day. 

•          ••••••• 

The  moon  rose. 

"Water!  water!  water!" 

Crittenden  could  not  move.  He  could  see  the 
lights  in  the  tents;  the  half-naked  figures 
stretched  on  tables;  and  doctors  with  bloody 
arms  about  them — cutting  and  bandaging — one 
with  his  hands  inside  a  man's  stomach,  working 
and  kneading  the  bowels  as  though  they  were 
dough.  Now  and  then  four  negro  troopers 
would  appear  with  something  in  a  blanket, 
would  walk  around  the  tent  where  there  was  a 
long  trench,  and,  standing  at  the  head  of  this, 
two  would  lift  up  their  ends  of  the  blanket  and 
the  other  two  would  let  go,  and  a  shapeless  shape 
would  drop  into  the  trench.  Up  and  down  near 
by  strolled  two  young  Lieutenants,  smoking  ciga 
rettes — calmly,  carelessly.  He  could  see  all  this, 
but  that  was  all  right;  that  was  all  right!  Every 
thing  was  all  right  except  that  long,  black  shape 
in  the  shadow  near  him  gasping: 

"Water!  water!  water!" 
184 


CRITTENDEN 

He  could  not  stand  that  hoarse,  rasping  whis 
per  much  longer.  His  canteen  he  had  clung  to 
— the  regular  had  taught  him  that — and  he  tried 
again  to  move.  A  thousand  needles  shot  through 
him — every  one,  it  seemed,  passing  through  a 
nerve-centre  and  back  the  same  path  again. 
He  heard  his  own  teeth  crunch  as  he  had  often 
heard  the  teeth  of  a  drunken  man  crunch,  and 
then  he  became  unconscious.  When  he  came  to, 
the  man  was  still  muttering;  but  this  time  it  was 
a  woman's  name,  and  Crittenden  lay  still.  Good 
God! 

"Judith — Judith — Judith!"  each  time  more 
faintly  still.  There  were  other  Judiths  in  the 
world,  but  the  voice — he  knew  the  voice — some 
where  he  had  heard  it.  The  moon  was  coming; 
it  had  crossed  the  other  man's  feet  and  was 
creeping  up  his  twisted  body.  It  would  reach 
his  face  in  time,  and,  if  he  could  keep  from  faint 
ing  again,  he  would  see. 

"Water!  water!  water!" 

Why  did  not  some  one  answer  ?  Crittenden 
called  and  called  and  called;  but  he  could  little 
more  than  whisper.  The  man  would  die  and 
be  thrown  into  that  trench;  or  he  might,  and 
never  know!  He  raised  himself  on  one  elbow 
again  and  dragged  his  quivering  body  after  it; 
he  clinched  his  teeth;  he  could  hear  them  crunch 
ing  again;  he  was  near  him  now;  he  would  not 

185 


CRITTENDEN 

faint;  and  then  the  blood  gushed  from  his  mouth 
and  he  felt  the  darkness  coming  again,  and 
again  he  heard: 

"Judith— Judith!" 

Then  there  were  footsteps  near  him  and  a 
voice — a  careless  voice 

"He's  gone." 

He  felt  himself  caught,  and  turned  over;  a 
hand  was  put  to  his  heart  for  a  moment  and  the 
same  voice: 

"  Bring  in  that  other  man;  no  use  fooling  with 
this  one." 

When  the  light  came  back  to  him  again,  he 
turned  his  head  feebly.  The  shape  was  still 
there,  but  the  moonlight  had  risen  to  the  dead 
man's  breast  and  glittered  on  the  edge  of  some 
thing  that  was  clinched  in  his  right  hand.  It 
was  a  miniature,  and  Crittenden  stared  at  it — 
unwinking — stared  and  stared  while  it  slowly 
came  into  the  strong,  white  light.  It  looked  like 
the  face  of  Judith.  It  wasn't,  of  course,  but  he 
dragged  himself  slowly,  slowly  closer.  It  was 
Judith — Judith  as  he  had  known  her  years  ago. 
He  must  see  now;  he  must  see  now,  and  he 
dragged  himself  on  and  up  until  his  eyes  bent 
over  the  dead  man's  face.  He  fell  back  then,  and 
painfully  edged  himself  away,  shuddering. 

"Blackford!     Judith!     Blackford!" 

He  was  face  to  face  wth  the  man  he  had 
1 86 


CRITTENDEN 

longed  so  many  years  to  see;  he  was  face  to  face 
at  last  with  him — dead. 

As  he  lay  there,  his  mood  changed  and  soft 
ened  and  a  curious  pity  filled  him  through  and 
through.  And  presently  he  reached  out  with 
his  left  hand  and  closed  the  dead  man's  eyes 
and  drew  his  right  arm  to  his  side,  and  with  his 
left  foot  he  straightened  the  dead  man's  right 
leg.  The  face  was  in  clear  view  presently — the 
handsome,  daredevil  face — strangely  shorn  of 
its  evil  lines  now  by  the  master-sculptor  of  the 
spirit — Death.  Peace  was  come  to  the  face  now; 
peace  to  the  turbulent  spirit;  peace  to  the  man 
whose  heart  was  pure  and  whose  blood  was 
tainted;  who  had  lived  ever  in  the  light  of  a 
baleful  star.  He  had  loved,  and  he  had  been 
faithful  to  the  end;  and  such  a  fate  might  have 
been  his — as  justly — God  knew. 

Footsteps  approached  again  and  Crittenden 
turned  his  head. 

"Why,  he  isn't  dead!" 

It  was  Willings,  the  surgeon  he  had  known 
at  Chickamauga,  and  Crittenden  called  him  by 
name. 

"No,  I'm  not  dead — I'm  not  going  to  die." 

Willings  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"Well,  there's  grit  for  you,"  said  the  other 
surgeon.  "We'll  take  him  next." 

"Straighten  him  out  there,  won't  you  ?"  said 


CRITTENDEN 

Crittenden,  gently,  as  the  two  men  stooped  for 
him. 

"Don't  put  him  in  there,  please,"  nodding 
toward  the  trench  behind  the  tents;  "and  mark 
his  grave,  won't  you,  Doctor  ?  He's  my  bunkie." 

"All  right,"  said  Willings,  kindly. 

"And  Doctor,  give  me  that — what  he  has  in 
his  hand,  please.  I  know  her." 

A  tent  at  Siboney  in  the  fever-camp  over 
looking  the  sea. 

"Judith!    Judith!    Judith!" 

The  doctor  pointed  to  the  sick  man's  name. 

"Answer  him?" 

But  the  nurse  would  not  call  his  name. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  gently;  and  she  put  one 
hand  on  his  forehead  and  the  other  on  the  hand 
that  was  clinched  on  his  breast.  Slowly  his  hand 
loosened  and  clasped  hers  tight,  and  Crittenden 
passed,  by  and  by,  into  sleep.  The  doctor 
looked  at  him  closely. 

He  had  just  made  the  rounds  of  the  tents  out 
side,  and  he  was  marvelling.  There  were  men 
who  had  fought  bravely,  who  had  stood  wounds 
and  the  surgeon's  knife  without  a  murmur; 
who,  weakened  and  demoralized  by  fever  now, 
were  weak  and  puling  of  spirit,  and  sly  and 
thievish;  who  would  steal  the  food  of  the  very 
comrades  for  whom  a  little  while  before  they 
188 


CRITTENDEN 

had  risked  their  lives — men  who  in  a  fortnight 
had  fallen  from  a  high  plane  of  life  to  the  pitiful 
level  of  brutes.  Only  here  and  there  was  an 
exception.  This  man,  Crittenden,  was  one. 
When  sane,  he  was  gentle,  uncomplaining,  con 
siderate.  Delirious,  there  was  never  a  plaint  in 
his  voice;  never  a  word  passed  his  lips  that  his 
own  mother  might  not  hear;  and  when  his  lips 
closed,  an  undaunted  spirit  kept  them  firm. 

"Aren't  you  tired?" 

The  nurse  shook  her  head. 

"Then  you  had  better  stay  where  you  are; 
his  case  is  pretty  serious.  I'll  do  your  work  for 
you." 

The  nurse  nodded  and  smiled.  She  was  tired 
and  worn  to  death,  but  she  sat  as  she  was  till 
dawn  came  over  the  sea,  for  the  sake  of  the 
girl,  whose  fresh  young  face  she  saw  above  the 
sick  man's  heart.  And  she  knew  from  the  face 
that  the  other  woman  would  have  watched  just 
that  way  for  her. 


XIII 

thunder  of  big  guns,  Cervera's  doom, 
and  truce  at  the  trenches.  A  trying  week  of 
hot  sun,  cool  nights,  tropical  rains,  and  fevers. 
Then  a  harmless  little  bombardment  one  Sun 
day  afternoon — that  befitted  the  day;  another 
week  of  heat  and  cold  and  wet  and  sickness. 
After  that,  the  surrender — and  the  fierce  little 
war  was  over. 

Meantime,  sick  and  wounded  were  homeward 
bound,  and  of  the  Crittendens  Bob  was  the  first 
to  reach  Canewood.  He  came  in  one  morning, 
hungry  and  footsore,  but  with  a  swagger  of  im 
portance  that  he  had  well  earned. 

He  had  left  his  Young  Captain  Basil  at  Old 
Point  Comfort,  he  said,  where  the  boy,  not  hav- 
mg  had  enough  of  war,  had  slipped  aboard  a 
transport  and  gone  off  with  the  Kentucky  Legion 
for  Porto  Rico — the  unhappy  Legion  that  had 
fumed  all  summer  at  Chickamauga — and  had 
hoisted  sail  for  Porto  Rico,  without  daring  to 
look  backward  for  fear  it  should  be  wigwagged 
back  to  land  from  Washington. 

Was  Basil  well  ? 

190 


CRITTENDEN 

"Yas'm.  Young  Cap'n  didn'  min'  dat  little 
bullet  right  through  his  neck  no  mo'n  a  fly-bite. 
Nothin'  gwine  to  keep  dat  boy  back." 

They  had  let  him  out  of  the  hospital,  or,  rather, 
he  had  gotten  out  by  dressing  himself  when  his 
doctor  was  not  there.  An  attendant  tried  to 
stop  him. 

"An*  Young  Cap'n  he  jes  drew  hisself  up 
mighty  gran*  an'  says:  'I'm  going  to  join  my 
regiment,'  he  says.  'It  sails  to-morrow.'  But 
Ole  Cap'n  done  killed,"  Bob  reckoned;  "killed 
on  top  of  the  hill  where  they  druv  the  Spaniards 
out  of  the  ditches  whar  they  wus  shootin'  from." 

Mrs.  Crittenden  smiled. 

"No,  Bob,  he's  coming  home  now,"  and 
Bob's  eyes  streamed.  "You've  been  a  good 
boy,  Bob.  Come  here;"  and  she  led  him  into 
the  hallway  and  told  him  to  wait,  while  she  went 
to  the  door  of  her  room  and  called  some  one. 

Molly  came  out  embarrassed,  twisting  a  cor 
ner  of  her  apron  and  putting  it  in  her  mouth 
while  she  walked  forward  and  awkwardly  shook 
hands. 

"I  think  Molly  has  got  something  to  say  to 
you,  Bob.  You  can  go,  Molly,"  she  added, 
smiling. 

The  two  walked  toward  the  cabin,  the  negroes 
crowding  about  Bob  and  shaking  him  by  the 
hand  and  asking  a  thousand  absurd  questions; 


CRITTENDEN 

and  Bob,  while  he  was  affable,  was  lordly  as 
well,  and  one  or  two  of  Bob's  possible  rivals  were 
seen  to  sniff,  as  did  other  young  field  hands, 
though  Bob's  mammy  was,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  grinning  openly  with  pride  in  her 
"chile,"  and  she  waved  the  curious  away  and 
took  the  two  in  her  own  cabin,  reappearing 
presently  and  walking  toward  the  kitchen. 

Bob  and  Molly  sat  down  on  opposite  sides  of 
the  fireplace,  Bob  triumphant  at  last,  and  Molly 
watching  him  furtively. 

"I  believe  you  has  somethin'  to  say  to  me, 
Miss  Johnson,"  said  Bob,  loftily. 

"Well,  I  sut'nly  is  glad  to  welcome  you  home 
ag'in,  Mistuh  Crittenden,"  said  Molly. 

"Is  you?" 

Bob  was  quite  independent  now,  and  Molly 
began  to  weaken  slightly. 

"An'  is  dat  all  you  got  to  say?" 

"Ole  Miss  said  I  must  tell  you  that  I  was 
mighty — mean — to — you — when  you  went — to 
— de  wah,  an'  that — I'm  sorry." 

"Well,  is  you  sorry?" 

Molly  was  silent. 

"Quit  yo'  foolin',  gal;  quit  yo'  foolin'." 

In  a  moment  Bob  was  by  her  side,  and  with 
his  arm  around  her;  and  Molly  rose  to  her  feet 
with  an  ineffectual  effort  to  unclasp  his  hands. 

"Quityo'  foolin'!" 

192 


CRITTENDEN 

Bob's  strong  arms  began  to  tighten,  and  the 
girl  in  a  moment  turned  and  gave  way  into  his 
arms,  and  with  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  began 
to  cry.  But  Bob  knew  what  sort  of  tears  they 
were,  and  he  was  as  gentle  as  though  his  skin 
had  been  as  white  as  was  his  heart. 

And  Crittenden  was  coming  home — Colour- 
Sergeant  Crittenden,  who  had  got  out  of  the 
hospital  and  back  to  the  trenches  just  in  time  to 
receive  flag  and  chevrons  on  the  very  day  of 
the  surrender — only  to  fall  ill  of  the  fever  and  go 
back  to  the  hospital  that  same  day.  There  was 
Tampa  once  more — the  great  hotel,  the  streets, 
silent  and  deserted,  except  for  the  occasional 
officer  that  rode  or  marched  through  the  deep  dust 
of  the  town,  and  the  other  soldiers,  regulars  and 
volunteers,  who  had  suffered  the  disappointment, 
the  heat,  sickness,  and  hardship  of  war  with  little 
credit  from  the  nation  at  large,  and  no  reward, 
such  even  as  a  like  fidelity  in  any  path  of  peace 
would  have  brought  them. 

Half  out  of  his  head,  weak  and  feverish,  Crit 
tenden  climbed  into  the  dusty  train  and  was 
whirled  through  the  dusty  town,  out  through 
dry  marshes  and  dusty  woods  and  dusty, 
cheerless,  dead-flowered  fields,  but  with  an  ex 
hilaration  that  made  his  temple  throb  like  a 
woman's. 


CRITTENDEN 

Up  through  the  blistered,  sandy,  pmey  low 
lands;  through  Chickamauga  again,  full  of 
volunteers  who,  too,  had  suffered  and  risked 
all  the  ills  of  the  war  without  one  thrill  of  com 
pensation;  and  on  again,  until  he  was  once  more 
on  the  edge  of  the  Bluegrass,  with  birds  singing 
the  sun  down;  and  again  the  world  for  him  was 
changed — from  nervous  exaltation  to  an  air  of 
balm  and  peace;  from  grim  hills  to  the  rolling 
sweep  of  low,  brown  slopes;  from  giant-poplar 
to  broad  oak  and  sugar-tree;  from  log-cabin  to 
homestead  of  brick  and  stone.  And  so,  from 
mountain  of  Cuba  and  mountain  of  his  own 
land,  Crittenden  once  more  passed  home.  It 
had  been  green  spring  for  the  earth  when  he 
left,  but  autumn  in  his  heart.  Now  autumn  lay 
over  the  earth,  but  in  his  heart  was  spring. 

As  he  glanced  out  of  the  window,  he  could 
see  a  great  crowd  about  the  station.  A  brass 
band  was  standing  in  front  of  the  station-door — • 
some  holiday  excursion  was  on  foot,  he  thought. 
As  he  stepped  on  the  platform,  a  great  cheer  was 
raised  and  a  dozen  men  swept  toward  him, 
friends,  personal  and  political,  but  when  they 
saw  him  pale,  thin,  lean-faced,  feverish,  dull- 
eyed,  the  cheers  stopped  and  two  powerful  fel 
lows  took  him  by  the  arms  and  half  carried  him 
to  the  station-door,  where  were  waiting  his 
mother — and  little  Phyllis. 
194 


OUTTENDEN 

When  they  came  out  again  to  the  carriage, 
the  band  started  "Johnny  Comes  Marching 
Home  Again,"  and  Crittenden  asked  feebly: 

"What  does  all  this  mean?" 

Phyllis  laughed  through  her  tears. 

"That's  for  you." 

Crittenden's  brow  wrinkled  in  a  pathetic  effort 
to  collect  his  thoughts;  but  he  gave  it  up  and 
looked  at  his  mother  with  an  unspoken  question 
on  his  lips.  His  mother  smiled  merely,  and 
Crittenden  wondered  why;  but  somehow  he  was 
not  particularly  curious — he  was  not  particularly 
concerned  about  anything.  In  fact,  he  was 
getting  weaker,  and  the  excitement  at  the  station 
was  bringing  on  the  fever  again.  Half  the  time 
his  eyes  were  closed,  and  when  he  opened  them 
on  the  swiftly  passing  autumn  fields,  his  gaze 
was  listless.  Once  he  muttered  several  times, 
as  though  he  were  out  of  his  head;  and  when 
they  drove  into  the  yard,  his  face  was  turning 
blue  at  the  lips  and  his  teeth  began  to  chatter. 
Close  behind  came  the  doctor's  buggy. 

Crittenden  climbed  out  slowly  and  slowly 
mounted  the  stiles.  On  the  top  step  he  sat  down, 
looking  at  the  old  homestead  and  the  barn  and 
the  stubble  wheat-fields  beyond,  and  at  the 
servants  coming  from  the  quarters  to  welcome 
him,  while  his  mother  stood  watching  and  fondly 
humouring  him. 

195 


CRITTENDEN 

"Uncle  Ephraim,"  he  said  to  a  respectful  old 
white-haired  man,  "where's  my  buggy?" 

"Right  where  you  left  it,  suh." 

"Well,  hitch  up — "  Raincrow,  he  was  about 
to  say,  and  then  he  remembered  that  Raincrow 
was  d*?i.  "Have  you  got  anything  to  drive  ?" 

"Yessuh;  we  got  Mr.  Basil's  little  mare." 

"Hitch  her  up  to  my  buggy,  then,  right  away. 
I  want  you  to  drive  me." 

The  old  darky  looked  puzzled,  but  Mrs.  Crit- 
tenden,  still  with  the  idea  of  humouring  him, 
nodded  for  him  to  obey,  and  the  old  man  turned 
toward  the  stable. 

"Yessuh — right  away,  suh." 

"Where's  Basil,  mother?" 

Phyllis  turned  her  face  quickly. 

"He'll  be  here  soon,"  said  his  mother,  with  a 
smile. 

The  doctor  looked  at  his  flushed  face. 

"Come  on,  my  boy,"  he  said,  firmly.  "You 
must  get  out  of  the  sun." 

Crittenden  shook  his  head. 

"Mother,  have  I  ever  done  anything  that  you 
asked  me  not  to  do?" 

"No,  my  son." 

"Please  don't  make  me  begin  now,"  he  said, 
gently.  "Is — is  she  at  home?" 

"  Yes;  but  she  is  not  very  well.  She  has  been 
ill  a  long  while,"  she  added,  but  she  did  not  tell 
196 


CRITTENDEN 

him  that  Judith  had  been  nursing  at  Tampa, 
and  that  she  had  been  sent  home,  stricken  with 
fever. 

The  doctor  had  been  counting  his  pulse,  and 
now,  with  a  grave  look,  pulled  a  thermometer 
from  his  pocket;  but  Crittenden  waved  him  away. 

"Not  yet,  Doctor;  not  yet,"  he  said,  and 
stopped  a  moment  to  control  his  voice  before  he 
went  on. 

"I  know  what's  the  matter  better  than  you 
do.  I'm  going  to  have  the  fever  again;  but  I've 
got  something  to  do  before  I  go  to  bed,  or  I'll 
never  get  up  again.  I  have  come  up  from 
Tampa  just  this  way,  and  I  can  go  on  like  this 
for  two  more  hours;  and  I'm  going." 

The  doctor  started  to  speak,  but  Mrs.  Crit 
tenden  shook  her  head  at  him,  and  Phyllis's 
face,  too,  was  pleading  for  him. 

"Mother,  I'll  be  back  in  two  hours,  and  then 
I'll  do  just  what  you  and  the  doctor  say;  but  not 


now." 


Judith  sat  bare-headed  on  the  porch  with  a 
white  shawl  drawn  closely  about  her  neck  and 
about  her  half-bare  arms.  Behind  her,  on  the 
floor  of  the  porch,  was,  where  she  had  thrown  it, 
a  paper  in  which  there  was  a  column  about  the 
home-coming  of  Crittenden — plain  Sergeant 
Crittenden.  And  there  was  a  long  editorial 
197 


CRITTENDEN 

comment,  full  of  national  spirit,  and  a  plain 
statement  to  the  effect  that  the  next  vacant  seat 
in  Congress  was  his  without  the  asking. 

The  pike-gate  slammed — her  father  was  get 
ting  home  from  town.  The  buggy  coming  over 
the  turf  made  her  think  what  a  change  a  few 
months  had  brought  to  Crittenden  and  to  her; 
of  the  ride  home  with  him  the  previous  spring; 
and  what  she  rarely  allowed  herself,  she  thought 
of  the  night  of  their  parting  and  the  warm  colour 
came  to  her  cheeks.  He  had  never  sent  her  a 
line,  of  course.  The  matter  would  never  be 
mentioned — it  couldn't  be.  It  struck  her  while 
she  was  listening  to  the  coming  of  the  feet  on 
the  turf  that  they  were  much  swifter  than  her 
father's  steady-going  old  buggy  horse.  The  click 
was  different;  and  when  the  buggy,  instead  of 
turning  toward  the  stable,  came  straight  for  the 
stiles,  her  heart  quickened  and  she  raised  her 
head.  She  heard  acutely  the  creak  of  the  springs 
as  some  one  stepped  to  the  ground,  and  then, 
without  waiting  to  tie  his  horse,  stepped  slowly 
over  the  stiles.  Unconsciously  she  rose  to  her 
feet,  not  knowing  what  to  think — to  do.  And 
then  she  saw  that  the  man  wore  a  slouch  hat, 
that  his  coat  was  off,  and  that  a  huge  pistol  was 
buckled  around  him,  and  she  turned  for  the  door 
in  alarm. 

"Judith!" 

198 


CRITTENDEN 

The  voice  was  weak,  and  she  did  not  know 
it;  but  in  a  moment  the  light  from  the  lamp  in 
the  hallway  fell  upon  a  bare-headed,  gaunt- 
featured  man  in  the  uniform  of  a  common 
soldier. 

"Judith!" 

This  time  the  voice  broke  a  little,  and  for  a 
moment  Judith  stood  speechless — still — unable 
to  believe  that  the  wreck  before  her  was  Crit- 
tenden.  His  face  and  eyes  were  on  fire — the  fire 
of  fever — she  could  not  know  that;  and  he  was 
trembling  and  looked  hardly  able  to  stand. 

"I've  come,  Judith,"  he  said.  "I  haven't 
known  what  to  do,  and  I've  come  to  tell  you — 
to — ask " 

He  was  searching  her  face  anxiously,  and  he 
stopped  suddenly  and  passed  one  hand  across 
his  eyes,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  recall  some 
thing.  The  girl  had  drawn  herself  slowly  up 
ward  until  the  honeysuckle  above  her  head 
touched  her  hair,  and  her  face,  that  had  been  so 
full  of  aching  pity  for  him  that  in  another  mo 
ment  she  must  have  gone  and  put  her  arms 
about  him,  took  on  a  sudden,  hard  quiet;  and 
the  long  anguish  of  the  summer  came  out  sud 
denly  in  her  trembling  lip  and  the  whiteness  of 
her  face. 

;<To  ask  for  forgiveness,"  he  might  have  said; 
but  his  instinct  swerved  him;  and — 
1.99 


CRITTENDEN 

"For  mercy,  Judith,"  he  would  have  said, 
but  the  look  of  her  face  stopped  the  words  in 
an  unheard  whisper;  and  he  stooped  slowly, 
feeling  carefully  for  a  step,  and  letting  himself 
weakly  down  in  a  way  that  almost  unnerved  her 
again;  but  he  had  begun  to  talk  now,  quietly  and 
evenly,  and  without  looking  up  at  her. 

"I'm  not  going  to  stay  long.  I'm  not  going 
to  worry  you.  I'll  go  away  in  just  a  moment; 
but  I  had  to  come;  I  had  to  come.  I've  been  a 
little  sick,  and  I  believe  I've  not  quite  got  over 
the  fever  yet;  but  I  couldn't  go  through  it  again 
without  seeing  you.  I  know  that,  and  that's — 
why — I've — come.  It  isn't  the  fever.  Oh,  no; 
I'm  not  sick  at  all.  I'm  very  well,  thank  you— 

He  was  getting  incoherent,  and  he  knew  it, 
and  stopped  a  moment. 
"It's  you,  Judith- 
He  stopped  again,  and  with  a  painful  effort 
went  on   slowly — slowly    and    quietly,  and  the 
girl,  without  a  word,  stood  still,  looking  down 
at  him. 

"  I — used — to — think — that — I — loved —  you. 
I — used — to — think  I  was — a — man.  I  didn't 
know  what  love  was,  and  I  didn't  know  what  it 
was  to  be  a  man.  I  know  both  now,  thank  God, 
and  learning  each  has  helped  me  to  learn  the 
other.  If  I  killed  all  your  feeling  for  me,  I  de 
serve  the  loss;  but  you  must  have  known,  Judith, 
200 


CRITTENDEN 

that  I  was  not  myself  that  night.  You  did  know. 
Your  instinct  told  you  the  truth ;  you—  knew — I 
loved — you — then — and  that's  why — that's  why 
— you — God  bless  you — said — wrrat — you — did. 
To  think  that  I  should  ever  dare  to  open  my 
lips  again!  but  I  can't  help  it;  I  can't  help  it.  I 
was  crazy,  Judith — crazy — and  I  am  now;  but 
it  didn't  go  and  then  come  back.  It  never  went 
at  all,  as  I  found  out,  going  down  to  Cuba — and 
yes,  it  did  come  back;  but  it  was  a  thousand 
times  higher  and  better  love  than  it  had  ever 
been,  for  everything  came  back  and  I  was  d. 
better  man.  I  have  seen  nothing  but  your  face 
all  the  time — nothing — nothing,  all  the  time  I've 
been  gone;  and  I  couldn't  rest  or  sleep — I 
couldn't  even  die,  Judith,  until  I  had  come  to  tell 
you  that  I  never  knew  a  man  could  love  a  woman 
as — I — love — you — Judith.  I — 

He  rose  very  slowly,  turned,  and  as  he  passed 
from  the  light,  his  weakness  got  the  better  of 
him  for  the  first  time,  because  of  his  wounds  and 
sickness,  and  his  voice  broke  in  a  half  sob — the 
sob  that  is  so  terrible  to  a  woman's  ears;  and 
she  saw  him  clinch  his  arms  fiercely  around  his 
breast  to  stifle  it. 

It  was  the  old  story  that  night — the  story  of 
the  summer's  heat  and  horror  and  suffering — 
heard  and  seen,  and  keenly  felt  in  his  delirium: 
201 


CRITTENDEN 

the  dusty,  grimy  days  of  drill  on  the  hot  sands 
of  Tampa;  the  long,  long,  hot  wait  on  the  trans 
port  in  the  harbour;  the  stuffy,  ill-smelling  breath 
of  the  hold,  when  the  wind  was  wrong;  the  march 
along  the  coast  and  the  grewsome  life  over  and 
around  him — buzzard  and  strange  bird  in  the 
air,  and  crab  and  snail  and  lizard  and  scorpion 
and  hairy  tarantula  scuttling  through  the  trop 
ical  green  rushes  along  the  path.  And  the  hun 
ger  and  thirst  and  heat  and  dirt  and  rolling 
sweat  of  the  last  day's  march  and  every  detail 
of  the  day's  fight;  the  stench  of  dead  horse  and 
dead  man;  the  shriek  of  shell  and  rattle  of  mus 
ketry  and  yell  of  officer;  the  slow  rush  through 
the  long  grass,  and  the  climb  up  the  hill.  And 
always,  he  was  tramping,  tramping,  tramping 
through  long,  green,  thick  grass.  Sometimes  a 
kaleidoscope  series  of  pictures  would  go  jum 
bling  through  his  brain,  as  though  some  imp 
were  unrolling  the  scroll  of  his  brain  backward, 
forward,  and  sidewise;  a  whirling  cloud  of  sand, 
a  driving  sheet  of  visible  bullets;  a  hose-pipe  that 
shot  streams  of  melted  steel;  a  forest  of  smoke 
stacks;  the  flash  of  trailing  phosphorescent  foam; 
a  clear  sky,  full  of  stars — the  mountains  clear  and 
radiant  through  sunlit  vapours;  camp-fires  shoot 
ing  flames  into  the  darkness,  and  men  and  guns 
moving  past  them.  Through  it  all  he  could  feel 
his  legs  moving  and  his  feet  tramping,  tramping, 
202 


CRITTENDEN 

tramping  through  long  green  grass.  Sometimes 
he  was  tramping  toward  the  figure  of  a  woman, 
whose  face  looked  like  Judith's;  and  tramp  as  he 
could,  he  could  never  get  close  enough  through 
that  grass  to  know  whether  it  was  Judith  or  not. 
But  usually  it  was  a  hill  that  he  was  tramping 
toward,  and  then  his  foothold  was  good;  and 
while  he  went  slowly  he  got  forward  and  he 
reached  the  hill,  and  he  climbed  it  to  a  queer- 
looking  little  block-house  on  top,  from  which 
queer-looking  little  blue  men  were  running. 
And  now  and  then  one  would  drop  and  not  get 
up  again.  And  by  and  by  came  his  time  to  drop. 
Then  he  would  begin  all  over  again,  or  he  would 
go  back  to  the  coast,  which  he  preferred  to  do, 
in  spite  of  his  aching  wound,  and  the  long  wait  in 
the  hospital  and  the  place  where  poor  Reynolds 
was  tossed  into  the  air  and  into  fragments  by  a 
shell;  in  spite  of  the  long  walk  back  to  Siboney; 
the  graves  of  the  Rough  Riders  and  the  scuttling 
land-crabs;  and  the  heat  and  the  smells.  Then 
he  would  march  back  again  to  the  trenches  in 
his  dream,  as  he  had  done  in  Cuba  when  he  got 
out  of  the  hospital.  There  was  the  hill  up  which 
he  had  charged.  It  looked  like  the  abode  of 
cave-dwellers — so  burrowed  was  it  with  bomb- 
proofs.  He  could  hear  the  shouts  of  welcome  as 
his  comrades,  and  men  who  had  never  spoken  to 
him  before,  crowded  about  him. 
203 


CRITTENDEN 

How  often  he  lived  through  that  last  proud 
little  drama  of  his  soldier  life!  There  was  his 
Captain  wounded,  and  there  was  the  old  Ser 
geant — the  "Governor" — with  chevrons  and  a 
flag. 

"You're  a  Sergeant,  Crittenden,"  said  the 
Captain. 

He,  Crittenden,  in  blood  and  sympathy  the 
spirit  of  secession — bearer  now  of  the  Stars  and 
Stripes!  How  his  heart  thumped,  and  how  his 
head  reeled  when  he  caught  the  staff  and  looked 
dumbly  up  to  the  folds;  and  in  spite  of  all  his 
self-control,  the  tears  came,  as  they  came  again 
and  again  in  his  delirium. 

Right  at  that  moment  there  was  a  great  bustle 
in  camp.  And  still  holding  that  flag,  Crittenden 
marched  with  his  company  up  to  the  trenches. 
There  was  the  army  drawn  up  at  parade,  in  a 
great  ten-mile  half-circle  and  facing  Santiago. 
There  were  the  red  roofs  of  the  town,  and  the 
batteries,  which  were  to  thunder  word  when  the 
red  and  yellow  flag  of  defeat  went  down  and  the 
victorious  Stars  and  Stripes  rose  up.  There 
were  little  men  in  straw  hats  and  blue  clothes 
coming  from  Santiago,  and  swinging  hammocks 
and  tethering  horses  in  an  open  field,  while  more 
little  men  in  Panama  hats  were  advancing  on 
the  American  trenches,  saluting  courteously. 
And  there  were  American  officers  jumping 
204 


CRITTENDEN 

across  the  trenches  to  meet  them,  and  while  they 
were  shaking  hands,  on  the  very  stroke  of  twelve, 
there  came  thunder — the  thunder  of  two-score 
and  one  salutes.  And  the  cheers — the  cheers! 
From  the  right  rose  those  cheers,  gathering 
volume  as  they  came,  swinging  through  the 
centre  far  to  the  left,  and  swinging  through  the 
centre  back  again,  until  they  broke  in  a  wild 
storm  against  the  big,  green  hills.  A  storm 
that  ran  down  the  foothills  to  the  rear,  was 
mingled  with  the  surf  at  Siboney  and  swung 
by  the  rocking  transports  out  to  sea.  Under  the 
sea,  too,  it  sang,  along  the  cables,  to  ring  on 
through  the  white  corridors  of  the  great  capitol 
and  spread  like  a  hurricane  throughout  all  the 
waiting  land  at  home !  Then  he  could  hear  bands 
playing — playing  the  "Star-Spangled  Banner" 
— and  the  soldiers  cheering  and  cheering  again. 
Suddenly  there  was  quiet;  the  bands  were  play 
ing  hymns — old,  old  hymns  that  the  soldier  had 
heard  with  bowed  head  at  his  mother's  knee,  or 
in  some  little  old  country  church  at  home — and 
what  hardships,  privations,  wounds,  death  of 
comrades  had  rarely  done,  those  old  hymns  did 
now — they  brought  tears.  Then  some  thought 
ful  soldier  pulled  a  box  of  hardtack  across  the 
trenches  and  the  little  Spanish  soldiers  fell  upon 
it  like  schoolboys  and  scrambled  like  pickanin 
nies  for  a  penny. 

205 


CRITTENDEN 

Thus  it  was  that  day  all  around  the  shin 
ing  circle  of  sheathed  bayonets,  silent  carbines, 
and  dumb  cannon-mouths  at  the  American 
trenches  around  Santiago,  where  the  fighting 
was  done. 

And  on  a  little  knoll  not  far  away  stood  Ser 
geant  Crittenden,  swaying  on  his  feet — colour- 
sergeant  to  the  folds  of  the  ever-victorious,  ever- 
beloved  Old  Glory  waving  over  him,  with  a 
strange  new  wave  of  feeling  surging  through 
him.  For  then  and  there,  Crittenden,  South 
erner,  died  straightway  and  through  a  travail  of 
wounds,  suffering,  sickness,  devotion,  and  love 
for  that  flag — Crittenden,  American,  was  born. 
And  just  at  that  proud  moment,  he  would  feel 
once  more  the  dizziness  seize  him.  The  world 
would  turn  dark,  and  again  he  would  sink 
slowly. 

And  again,  when  all  this  was  over,  the  sick 
man  would  go  back  to  the  long  grass  and  tramp 
it  once  more  until  his  legs  ached  and  his  brain 
swam.  And  when  it  was  the  hill  that  he  could 
see,  he  was  quiet  and  got  rest  for  a  while;  and 
when  it  was  the  figure  of  Judith — he  knew  now 
that  it  was  Judith — he  would  call  aloud  for  her, 
just  as  he  did  in  the  hospital  at  Siboney.  And 
always  the  tramp  through  the  long  grass  would 
begin  again — 

Tramp — tramp — tramp. 
206 


CRITTENDEN 

He  was  very  tired,  but  there  was  the  long  grass 
ahead  of  him,  and  he  must  get  through  it  some 
how. 

Tramp — tramp — tramp. 


207 


XIV 

A  UTUMN  came  and  the  Legion  was  coming 
•*  **  home — Basil  was  coming  home.  And 
Phyllis  was  for  one  hour  haughty  and  unforgiv 
ing  over  what  she  called  his  shameful  neglect 
and,  for  another,  in  a  fever  of  unrest  to  see  him. 
No,  she  was  not  going  to  meet  him.  She  would 
wait  for  him  at  her  own  home,  and  he  could 
come  to  her  there  with  the  honours  of  war  on  his 
brow  and  plead  on  bended  knee  to  be  forgiven. 
At  least  that  was  the  picture  that  she  sometimes 
surprised  in  her  own  mind,  though  she  did  not 
want  Basil  kneeling  to  anybody — not  even  to 
her. 

The  town  made  ready,  and  the  spirit  of  wel 
come  for  the  home-coming  was  oddly  like  the 
spirit  of  God-speed  that  had  followed  them  six 
months  before;  only  there  were  more  smiling 
faces,  more  and  madder  cheers,  and  as  many 
tears,  but  this  time  they  were  tears  of  joy.  For 
many  a  mother  and  daughter  who  did  not  weep 
when  father  and  brother  went  away,  wept  now, 
that  they  were  coming  home  again.  They  had 
run  the  risk  of  fever  and  sickness,  the  real  ter- 
208 


CRITTENDEN 

rors  of  war.  God  knew  they  had  done  their  best 
to  get  to  the  front,  and  the  people  knew  what 
account  they  would  have  given  of  themselves 
had  they  gotten  their  chance  at  war.  They  had 
had  all  the  hardship — the  long,  long  hardship 
without  the  one  moment  of  recompense  that  was 
the  soldier's  reward  and  his  sole  opportunity  for 
death  or  glory.  So  the  people  gave  them  all  the 
deserved  honour  that  they  would  have  given  had 
they  stormed  San  Juan  or  the  stone  fort  at 
Caney.  The  change  that  even  in  that  short 
time  was  wrought  in  the  regiment,  everybody 
saw;  but  only  the  old  ex-Confederates  and  Fed 
erals  on  the  street  knew  the  steady,  veteran-like 
swing  of  the  march  and  felt  the  solid  unity  of 
form  and  spirit  that  those  few  months  had 
brought  to  the  tanned  youths  who  marched  now 
like  soldiers  indeed.  And  next  the  Colonel  rode 
the  hero  of  the  regiment,  who  had  got  to  Cuba, 
who  had  stormed  the  hill,  and  who  had  met  a 
Spanish  bullet  face  to  face  and  come  off  con 
queror — Basil,  sitting  his  horse  as  only  the 
Southerner,  born  to  the  saddle,  can.  How  they 
cheered  him,  and  how  the  gallant,  generous  old 
Colonel  nodded  and  bowed  as  though  to  say: 

"That's  right;  that's  right.  Give  it  to  him! 
give  it  to  him!" 

Phyllis — her  mother  and  Basil's  mother  being 
present — shook  hands  merely  with  Basil  when 
209 


CRITTENDEN 

she  saw  him  first  at  the  old  woodland,  and  Basil 
blushed  like  a  girl.  They  fell  behind  as  the 
older  people  walked  toward  the  auditorium,  and 
Basil  managed  to  get  hold  of  her  hand,  but  she 
pulled  it  away  rather  haughtily.  She  was  look 
ing  at  him  very  reproachfully,  a  moment  later, 
when  her  eyes  became  suddenly  fixed  to  the 
neck  of  his  blouse,  and  filled  with  tears.  She 
began  to  cry  softly. 

"Why,  Phyllis." 

Phyllis  was  giving  way,  and,  thereupon,  with 
her  own  mother  and  Basil's  mother  looking  on, 
and  to  Basil's  blushing  consternation,  she  darted 
for  his  neck-band  and  kissed  him  on  the  throat. 
The  throat  flushed,  and  in  the  flush  a  tiny  white 
spot  showed — the  mouth  of  a  tiny  wound  where 
a  Mauser  bullet  had  hissed  straight  through. 

Then  the  old  auditorium  again,  and  Critten- 
den,  who  had  welcomed  the  Legion  to  camp  at 
Ashland,  was  out  of  bed,  against  the  doctor's 
advice,  to  welcome  it  to  home  and  fireside.  And 
when  he  faced  the  crowd — if  they  cheered  Basil, 
what  did  they  do  now  ?  He  was  startled  by  the 
roar  that  broke  against  the  roof.  As  he  stood 
there,  still  pale,  erect,  modest,  two  pairs  of  eyes 
saw  what  no  other  eyes  saw,  two  minds  were 
thinking  what  none  others  were — the  mother 
and  Judith  Page.  Others  saw  him  as  the  sol 
dier,  the  generous  brother,  the  returned  hero. 
210 


CRITTENDEN 

These  two  looked  deeper  and  saw  the  new  man 
who  had  been  forged  from  dross  by  the  fire  of 
battle  and  fever  and  the  fire  of  love.  There  was 
much  humility  in  the  face,  a  new  fire  in  the  eyes, 
a  nobler  bearing — and  his  bearing  had  always 
been  proud — a  nobler  sincerity,  a  nobler  pur 
pose. 

He  spoke  not  a  word  of  himself — not  a  word 
of  the  sickness  through  which  he  had  passed. 
It  was  of  the  long  patience  and  the  patriotism  of 
the  American  soldier,  the  hardship  of  camp  life, 
the  body-wearing  travail  of  the  march  in  tropical 
heat.  And  then  he  paid  his  tribute  to  the  regu 
lar.  There  was  no  danger  of  the  volunteer  fail 
ing  to  get  credit  for  what  he  had  done,  but  the 
regular — there  was  no  one  to  speak  for  him  in 
camp,  on  the  transports,  on  the  march,  in  trop 
ical  heat,  and  on  the  battle-field.  He  had  seen 
the  regular  hungry,  wet,  sick,  but  fighting  still; 
and  he  had  seen  him  wounded,  dying,  dead,  and 
never  had  he  known  anything  but  perfect  kind 
ness  from  one  to  the  other;  perfect  courtesy  to 
outsider;  perfect  devotion  to  officer,  and  never  a 
word  of  complaint — never  one  word  of  com 
plaint. 

"Sometimes  I  think  that  the  regular  who  has 
gone  will  not  open  his  lips  if  the  God  of  Battles 
tells  him  that  not  yet  has  he  earned  eternal 
peace." 

211 


CRITTENDEN 

As  for  the  war  itself,  it  had  placed  the  nation 
high  among  the  seats  of  the  Mighty.  It  had 
increased  our  national  pride,  through  unity,  a 
thousand  fold.  It  would  show  to  the  world  and 
to  ourselves  that  the  heroic  mould  in  which  the 
sires  of  the  nation  were  cast  is  still  casting  the 
sons  of  to-day;  that  we  need  not  fear  degeneracy 
nor  dissolution  for  another  hundred  years — 
smiling  as  he  said  this,  as  though  the  dreams  of 
Greece  and  Rome  were  to  become  realities  here. 
It  had  put  to  rest  for  a  time  the  troublous  social 
problems  of  the  day;  it  had  brought  together 
every  social  element  in  our  national  life — coal- 
heaver  and  millionaire,  student  and  cowboy, 
plain  man  and  gentleman,  regular  and  volunteer 
— had  brought  them  face  to  face  and  taught  each 
for  the  other  tolerance,  understanding,  sym 
pathy,  high  regard;  and  had  wheeled  all  into  a 
solid  front  against  a  common  foe.  It  had  thus 
not  only  brought  shoulder  to  shoulder  the 
brothers  of  the  North  and  South,  but  those 
brothers  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  our  brothers 
across  the  sea.  In  the  interest  of  humanity,  it 
had  freed  twelve  million  people  of  an  alien  race 
and  another  land,  and  it  had  given  us  a  better 
hope  for  the  alien  race  in  our  own. 

And  who  knew  but  that,  up  where  France's 
great  statue  stood  at  the  wide-thrown  portals  of 
the  Great  City  of  the  land,  it  had  not  given  to 
212 


CRITTENDEN 

the  mighty  torch  that  nightly  streams  the  light 
of  Liberty  across  the  waters  from  the  New  World 
to  the  Old — who  knew  that  it  had  not  given  to 
that  light  a  steady,  ever-onward-reaching  glow 
that  some  day  should  illumine  the  earth  ? 

The  Cuban  fever  does  not  loosen  its  clutch 
easily. 

Crittenden  went  to  bed  that  day  and  lay  there 
delirious  and  in  serious  danger  for  more  than 
a  fortnight.  But  at  the  end  a  reward  came  for 
all  the  ills  of  his  past  and  all  that  could  ever 
come. 

His  long  fight  was  over,  and  that  afternoon 
he  lay  by  his  window,  which  was  open  to  the 
rich,  autumn  sunlight  that  sifted  through  the 
woods  and  over  the  pasture  till  it  lay  in  golden 
sheens  across  the  fence  and  the  yard  and  rested 
on  his  window-sill,  rich  enough  almost  to  grasp 
with  his  hand,  should  he  reach  out  for  it.  There 
was  a  little  colour  in  his  face — he  had  eaten  one 
good  meal  that  day,  and  his  long  fight  with  the 
fever  was  won.  He  did  not  know  that  in  his 
delirium  he  had  spoken  of  Judith — Judith — 
Judith — and  this  day  and  that  had  given  out 
fragments  from  which  his  mother  could  piece 
out  the  story  of  his  love;  that,  at  the  crisis,  when 
his  mother  was  about  to  go  to  the  girl,  Judith 
had  come  of  her  own  accord  to  his  bedside.  He 
213 


CRITTENDEN 

did  not  know  her,  but  he  grew  quiet  at  once  when 
the  girl  put  her  hand  on  his  forehead. 

Now  Crittenden  was  looking  out  on  the  sward, 
green  with  the  curious  autumn-spring  that 
comes  in  that  Bluegrass  land:  a  second  spring 
that  came  every  year  to  nature,  and  was  coming 
this  year  to  him.  And  in  his  mood  for  field  and 
sky  was  the  old,  dreamy  mistiness  of  pure  de 
light — spiritual — that  he  had  not  known  for 
many  years.  It  was  the  spirit  of  his  youth  come 
back — that  distant  youth  when  the  world  was 
without  a  shadow;  when  his  own  soul  had  no 
tarnish  of  evil;  when  passion  was  unconscious 
and  pure;  when  his  boyish  reverence  was  the 
only  feeling  he  knew  toward  every  woman.  And 
lying  thus,  as  the  sun  sank  and  the  shadows  stole 
slowly  across  the  warm  bands  of  sunlight,  and 
the  meadow-lark  called  good-night  from  the 
meadows,  whence  the  cows  were  coming  home 
ward  and  the  sheep  were  still  browsing — out  of 
the  quiet  and  peace  and  stillness  and  purity  and 
sweetness  of  it  all  came  his  last  vision — the 
vision  of  a  boy  with  a  fresh,  open  face  and  no 
shadow  across  the  mirror  of  his  clear  eyes.  It 
looked  like  Basil,  but  it  was  "the  little  brother" 
of  himself  coming  back  at  last — coming  with  a 
glad,  welcoming  smile.  The  little  man  was 
running  swiftly  across  the  fields  toward  him. 
He  had  floated  lightly  over  the  fence,  and  was 
214 


CRITTENDEN 

making  straight  across  the  yard  for  his  window; 
and  there  he  rose  and  floated  in,  and  with  a  boy's 
trustfulness  put  his  small,  chubby  hand  in  the 
big  brother's,  and  Crittenden  felt  the  little  fel 
low's  cheek  close  to  his  as  he  slept  on,  his  lashes 
wet  with  tears. 

The  mother  opened  the  door;  a  tall  figure 
slipped  gently  in;  the  door  was  closed  softly 
after  it  again,  and  Judith  was  alone;  for  Crit 
tenden  still  lay  with  his  eyes  closed,  and  the 
girl's  face  whitened  with  pity  and  flamed  slowly 
as  she  slowly  slipped  forward  and  stood  looking 
down  at  him.  As  she  knelt  down  beside  him, 
something  that  she  held  in  her  hand  clanked 
softly  against  the  bed  and  Crittenden  opened  his 
eyes. 

"Mother!" 

There  was  no  answer.  Judith  had  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands.  A  sob  reached  his  ears  and 
he  turned  quickly. 

"Judith,"  he  said;  "Judith,"  he  repeated, 
with  a  quick  breath.  "Why,  my  God,  you! 
Why — you — you've  come  to  see  me !  ,  ou,  after 
all— you!" 

He  raised  himself  slowly,  and  as  he  bent  over 
her,  he  saw  his  father's  sword,  caught  tightly 
in  her  white  hands — the  old  sword  that  was 
between  him  and  Basil  to  win  and  wear — 
and  he  knew  the  meaning  of  it  all,  and  he 

215 


CRITTENDEN 

had  to  steady  himself  to  keep  back  his  own 
tears. 

"Judith!" 

His  voice  choked;  he  could  get  no  further, 
and  he  folded  his  arrm  about  her  head  and 
buried  his  face  in  her  hair. 


XV 


rl"AHE  gray  walls  of  Indian  summer  tumbled 
•*•  at  the  horizon  and  let  the  glory  of  many 
fires  shine  out  among  the  leaves.  Once  or  twice 
the  breath  of  winter  smote  the  earth  white  at 
dawn.  Christmas  was  coming,  and  God  was 
good  that  Christmas. 

Peace  came  to  Crittenden  during  the  long, 
dream-like  days — and  happiness;  and  high  re 
solve  had  deepened. 

Day  by  day,  Judith  opened  to  him  some  new 
phase  of  loveliness,  and  he  wondered  how  he 
could  have  ever  thought  that  he  knew  her;  that 
he  loved  her,  as  he  loved  her  now.  He  had  given 
her  the  locket  and  had  told  her  the  story  of  that 
night  at  the  hospital.  She  had  shown  no  sur 
prise,  and  but  very  little  emotion;  moreover,  she 
was  silent.  And  Crittenden,  too,  was  silent, 
and,  as  always,  asked  no  questions.  It  was  her 
secret;  she  did  not  wish  him  to  know,  and  his 
trust  was  unfaltering.  Besides,  he  had  his  se 
crets  as  well.  He  meant  to  tell  her  all  some  day, 
and  she  meant  to  tell  him;  but  the  hours  were  so 
full  of  sweet  companionship  that  both  forbore 


CRITTENDEN 

to  throw  the  semblance  of  a  shadow  on  the 
sunny  days  they  spent  together. 

It  was  at  the  stiles  one  night  that  Judith 
handed  Crittenden  back  the  locket  that  had 
come  from  the  stiffened  hand  of  the  Rough 
Rider,  Blackford,  along  with  a  letter,  stained, 
soiled,  unstamped,  addressed  to  herself,  marked 
on  the  envelope  "  Soldier's  letter,"  and  counter 
signed  by  his  Captain. 

"I  heard  him  say  at  Chickamauga  that  he 
was  from  Kentucky,"  ran  the  letter,  "and  that 
his  name  was  Crittenden.  I  saw  your  name  on 
a  piece  of  paper  that  blew  out  of  his  tent  one  day. 
I  guessed  what  was  between  you  two,  and  I 
asked  him  to  be  my  'bunkie;'  but  as  you  never 
told  him  my  name,  I  never  told  him  who  I  was. 
I  went  with  the  Rough  Riders,  but  we  have  been 
camped  near  each  other.  To-morrow  comes  the 
big  fight.  Our  regiments  will  doubtless  advance 
together.  I  shall  watch  out  for  him  as  long  as  I 
am  alive.  I  shall  be  shot.  It  is  no  premonition 
— no  fear,  no  belief.  I  know  it.  I  still  have  the 
locket  you  gave  me.  If  I  could,  I  would  give 
it  to  him;  but  he  would  know  who  I  am,  and  it 
seems  your  wish  that  he  should  not  know. 
I  should  like  to  see  you  once  more,  but  I 
should  not  like  you  to  see  me.  I  am  too  much 
changed ;  I  can  see  it  in  my  own  face.  Good-night. 
Good-by." 

218 


CRITTENDEN 

There  was  no  name  signed.  The  initials  were 
J.  P.,  and  Crittenden  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"His  name  was  not  Blackford;  it  was  Page — 
Jack  Page.  He  was  my  cousin,"  she  went  on, 
gently.  "That  is  why  I  never  told  you.  It  all 
happened  while  you  were  at  college.  While  you 
were  here,  he  was  usually  out  West;  and  people 
thought  we  were  merely  cousins,  and  that  I  was 
weaning  him  from  his  unhappy  ways.  I  was 
young  and  foolish,  but  I  had — you  know  the 
rest." 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

"God  pity  him!" 

Crittenden  turned  from  her  and  walked  to 
and  fro,  and  Judith  rose  and  walked  up  to  him, 
looking  him  in  the  eyes. 

"No,  dear,"  she  said;  "I  am  sorry  for  him 
now — sorry,  so  sorry!  I  wish  I  could  have 
helped  him  more.  That  is  all.  It  has  all  gone — 
long  ago.  It  never  was.  I  did  not  know  until 
I  left  you  here  at  the  stiles  that  night." 

Crittenden  looked  inquiringly  into  her  eyes 
before  he  stooped  to  kiss  her.  She  answered  his 
look. 

"Yes,"  she  said  simply;  "when  I  sent  him 
away." 

Crittenden's  conscience  smote  him  sharply. 
What  right  had  he  to  ask  such  a  question — even 
with  a  look  ? 

219 


CRITTENDEN 

"Come,  dear,"  he  said;  "I  want  to  tell  you 
all— now." 

But  Judith  stopped  him  with  a  gesture. 

"Is  there  anything  that  may  cross  your  life 
hereafter — or  mine?" 

"No,  thank  God;  no!" 

Judith  put  her  finger  on  his  lips. 

"I  don't  want  to  know." 

And  God  was  good  that  Christmas. 

The  day  was  snapping  cold,  and  just  a  fort 
night  before  Christmas  eve.  There  had  been  a 
heavy  storm  of  wind  and  sleet  the  night  before, 
and  the  negroes  of  Canewood,  headed  by  Bob 
and  Uncle  Ephraim,  were  searching  the  woods 
for  the  biggest  fallen  oak  they  could  find.  The 
frozen  grass  was  strewn  with  wrenched  limbs, 
and  here  and  there  was  an  ash  or  a  sugar- 
tree  splintered  and  prostrate,  but  wily  Uncle 
Ephraim  was  looking  for  a  yule-log  that  would 
burn  slowly  and  burn  long;  for  as  long  as  the 
log  burned,  just  that  long  lasted  the  holiday  of 
every  darky  on  the  place.  So  the  search  was 
careful,  and  lasted  till  a  yell  rose  from  Bob 
under  a  cliff  by  the  side  of  the  creek — a  yell  of 
triumph  that  sent  the  negroes  in  a  rush  toward 
him.  Bob  stood  on  the  torn  and  twisted  roots 
of  a  great  oak  that  wind  and  ice  had  tugged  from 
its  creek-washed  roots  and  stretched  parallel 
220 


CRITTENDEN 

with  the  water — every  tooth  showing  delight  in 
his  find.  With  the  cries  and  laughter  of  chil 
dren,  two  boys  sprang  upon  the  tree  with  axes, 
but  Bob  waved  them  back. 

"Go  back  an'  git  dat  cross-cut  saw!"  he 
said. 

Bob,  as  ex-warrior,  took  precedence  even  of 
his  elders  now. 

"Fool  niggers  don't  seem  to  know  dar'll 
be  mo'  wood  to  burn  if  we  don't  waste  de 
chips!" 

The  wisdom  of  this  was  clear,  and,  in  a  few 
minutes,  the  long-toothed  saw  was  singing 
through  the  tough  bark  of  the  old  monarch — a 
darky  at  each  end  of  it,  the  tip  of  his  tongue  in 
the  corner  of  his  mouth,  the  muscles  of  each 
powerful  arm  playing  like  cords  of  elastic  steel 
under  its  black  skin — the  sawyers,  each  time 
with  a  mighty  grunt,  drew  the  shining,  whistling 
blade  to  and  fro  to  the  handle.  Presently  they 
began  to  sing — improvising: 

PuU  him  t'roo!  (grunt) 

Yes,  man. 

Pull  him  t'roo — huh! 
Saw  him  to  de  heart. 

Gwine  to  have  Christmas. 

Yes,  man! 
Gwine  to  have  Christmas. 

Yes,  man! 

221 


CRITTENDEN 

Gwine  to  have  Christmas 
Long  as  he  can  bu'n. 

Burn  long,  log! 

Yes,  log! 
Burn  long,  log! 

Yes,  log, 
Heah  me,  log,  burn  long! 

Gib  dis  nigger  Christmas. 

Yes,  Lawd,  long  Christmas! 
Gib  dis  nigger  Christmas. 

O  log,  burn  long! 

And  the  saw  sang  with  them  in  perfect  time, 
spitting  out  the  black,  moist  dust  joyously — - 
sang  with  them  and  without  a  breath  for  rest; 
for  as  two  pair  of  arms  tired,  another  fresh  pair 
of  sinewy  hands  grasped  the  handles.  In  an 
hour  the  whistle  of  the  saw  began  to  rise  in  key 
higher  and  higher,  and  as  the  men  slowed  up 
carefully,  it  gave  a  little  high  squeak  of  triumph, 
and  with  a  "kerchunk"  dropped  to  the  ground. 
With  more  cries  and  laughter,  two  men  rushed 
for  fence-rails  to  be  used  as  levers. 

There  was  a  chorus  now: 

Soak  him  in  de  water, 

Up,  now! 
Soak  him  in  de  water, 

Up,  now! 
O  Lawd,  soak  long! 

222 


CRITTENDEN 

There  was  a  tightening  of  big,  black  biceps, 
a  swelling  of  powerful  thighs,  a  straightening 
of  mighty  backs;  the  severed  heart  creaked  and 
groaned,  rose  slightly,  turned  and  rolled  with  a 
great  splash  into  the  black,  winter  water.  An 
other  delighted  chorus: 

"Dyar  now!" 

"HoF  on,"  said  Bob;  and  he  drove  a  spike 
into  the  end  of  the  log,  tied  one  end  of  a  rope  to 
the  spike,  and  the  other  to  a  pliant  young  hick 
ory,  talking  meanwhile: 

"Gwine  to  rain,  an'  maybe  ole  Mister  Log 
try  to  slip  away  like  a  thief  in  de  dark.  Don't 
git  away  from  Bob;  no  suh.  You  be  heah  now 
Christmas  eve — sho'!" 

"Gord!"  said  a  little  negro  with  bandy  legs. 
"Soak  dat  log  till  Christmas  an'  I  reckon  he'll 
burn  mo'n  two  weeks." 

God  was  good  that  Christmas — good  to  the 
nation,  for  He  brought  to  it  victory  and  peace, 
and  made  it  one  and  indivisible  in  feeling,  as 
it  already  was  in  fact;  good  to  the  State,  for  it 
had  sprung  loyally  to  the  defence  of  the  country, 
and  had  won  all  the  honour  that  was  in  the 
effort  to  be  won,  and  man  nor  soldier  can  do 
more;  good  to  the  mother,  for  the  whole  land 
rang  with  praises  of  her  sons,  and  her  own  peo 
ple  swore  that  to  one  should  be  given  once  more 
the  seat  of  his  fathers  in  the  capitol;  but  best  to 
223 


CRITTENDEN 

her  when  the  bishop  came  to  ordain,  and,  on  his 
knees  at  the  chancel  and  waiting  for  the  good 
old  man's  hands,  was  the  best  beloved  of  her 
children  and  her  first-born — Clay  Crittenden. 
To  her  a  divine  purpose  seemed  apparent,  to 
bring  her  back  the  best  of  the  old  past  and  all 
she  prayed  for  the  future. 

As  Christmas  day  drew  near,  gray  clouds 
marshalled  and  loosed  white  messengers  of  peace 
and  good-will  to  the  frozen  earth  until  the  land 
was  robed  in  a  thick,  soft,  shining  mantle  of  pure 
white — the  first  spiritualization  of  the  earth  for 
the  birth  of  spring.  It  was  the  mother's  wish 
that  her  two  sons  should  marry  on  the  same  day 
and  on  that  day,  and  Judith  and  Phyllis  yielde^l. 
So  early  that  afternoon,  she  saw  together  Judith, 
as  pure  and  radiant  as  a  snow-hung  willow  in  the 
sunshine,  and  her  son,with  the  light  in  his  face  for 
which  she  had  prayed  so  many  years — saw  them 
standing  together  and  clasp  hands  forever.  They 
took  a  short  wedding  trip,  and  that  straight  across 
the  crystal  fields,  where  little  Phyllis  stood  with 
Basil  in  uniform — straight  and  tall  and  with  new 
lines,  too,  but  deepened  merely,  about  his  hand 
some  mouth  and  chin — waiting  to  have  their 
lives  made  one.  And,  meanwhile,  Bob  and 
Molly  too  were  making  ready;  for  if  there  be  a 
better  hot-bed  of  sentiment  than  the  mood  of 
man  and  woman  when  the  man  is  going  to  war, 
224 


CRITTENDEN 

it  is  the  mood  of  man  and  woman  when  the  man 
has  come  home  from  war;  and  with  cries  and 
grunts  and  great  laughter  and  singing,  the  ne 
groes  were  pulling  the  yule-log  from  its  long 
bath  and  across  the  snowy  fields;  and  when,  at 
dusk,  the  mother  brought  her  two  sons  and  her 
two  daughters  and  the  Pages  and  Stantons  to 
her  own  roof,  the  big  log,  hidden  by  sticks  of 
pine  and  hickory,  was  sputtering  Christmas 
cheer  with  a  blaze  and  crackle  that  warmed  body 
and  heart  and  home.  That  night  the  friends 
came  from  afar  and  near;  and  that  night  Bob, 
the  faithful,  valiant  Bob,  in  a  dress-suit  that  was 
his  own  and  new,  and  Mrs.  Crittenden's  own 
gift,  led  the  saucy  Molly,  robed  as  no  other 
dusky  bride  at  Canewood  was  ever  arrayed,  into 
the  dining-room,  while  the  servants  crowded  the 
doors  and  hallway  and  the  white  folk  climbed 
the  stairs  to  give  them  room.  And  after  a  few 
solemn  moments,  Bob  caught  the  girl  in  his 
arms  and  smacked  her  lips  loudly: 

"Now,  gal,  I  reckon  I  got  yer!"  he  cried; 
and  whites  and  blacks  broke  into  jolly  laughter, 
and  the  music  of  fiddles  rose  in  the  kitchen, 
where  there  was  a  feast  for  Bob's  and  Molly's 
friends.  Rose,  too,  the  music  of  fiddles  under 
the  stairway  in  the  hall,  and  Mrs.  Crittenden 
and  Judge  Page,  and  Crittenden  and  Mrs. 
Stanton,  and  Judith  and  Basil,  and  none  other 
225 


CRITTENDEN 

than  Grafton  and  radiant  little  Phyllis  led  the 
way  for  the  opening  quadrille.  It  was  an  old- 
fashioned  Christmas  the  mother  wanted,  and  an 
old-fashioned  Christmas,  with  the  dance  and 
merriment  and  the  graces  of  the  old  days,  that  the 
mother  had.  Over  the  portrait  of  the  eldest 
Crittenden,  who  slept  in  Cuba,  hung  the  flag  of 
the  single  star  that  would  never  bend  its  colours 
again  to  Spain.  Above  the  blazing  log  and  over 
the  fine,  strong  face  of  the  brave  father,  who 
had  fought  to  dissolve  the  Union,  hung  the  Stars 
and  Bars — proudly.  And  over  the  brave 
brother,  who  looked  down  from  the  north  wall, 
hung  proudly  the  Stars  and  Stripes  for  which 
he  had  given  his  young  life. 

Then  came  toasts  after  the  good  old  fashion — 
graceful  toasts — to  the  hostess  and  the  brides, 
to  the  American  soldier,  regular  and  volunteer. 
And  at  the  end,  Crittenden,  regular,  raised  his 
glass  and  there  was  a  hush. 

It  was  good,  he  said,  to  go  back  to  the  past; 
good  to  revive  and  hold  fast  to  the  ideals  that 
time  had  proven  best  for  humanity;  good  to  go 
back  to  the  earth,  like  the  Titans,  for  fresh 
strength;  good  for  the  man,  the  State,  the  na 
tion.  And  it  was  best  for  the  man  to  go  back 
to  the  ideals  that  had  dawned  at  his  mother's 
knee;  for  there  was  the  fountain-head  of  the 
nation's  faith  in  its  God,  man's  faith  in  his 
226 


CRITTENDEN 

nation — man's  faith  in  his  fellow  and  faith  in 
himself.  And  he  drank  to  one  who  represented 
his  own  early  ideals  better  than  he  should  ever 
realize  them  for  himself.  Then  he  raised  his 
glass,  smiling,  but  deeply  moved: 

"My  little  brother." 

He  turned  to  Basil  when  he  spoke  and  back 
again  to  Judith,  who,  of  all  present,  knew  all 
that  he  meant,  and  he  saw  her  eyes  shine  with 
the  sudden  light  of  tears. 

At  last  came  the  creak  of  wheels  on  the  snow 
outside,  the  cries  of  servants,  the  good-bys  and 
good-wishes  and  congratulations  from  one  and 
all  to  one  and  all;  the  mother's  kiss  to  Basil  and 
Phyllis,  who  were  under  their  mother's  wing; 
the  last  calls  from  the  doorway;  the  light  of  lan 
terns  across  the  fields;  the  slam  of  the  pike-gate 
— and,  over  the  earth,  white  silence.  The  mother 
kissed  Judith  and  kissed  her  son. 

"My  children!" 

Then,  as  was  her  custom  always,  she  said 
simply: 

"Be  sure  to  bolt  the  front  door,  my  son." 

And,  as  he  had  done  for  years,  Crittenden 
slipped  the  fastenings  of  the  big  hall-door, 
paused  a  moment,  and  looked  out.  Around  the 
corner  of  the  still  house  swept  the  sounds  of 
merriment  from  the  quarters.  The  moon  had 
risen  on  the  snowy  fields  and  white-cowled  trees 
227 


CRITTENDEN 

and  draped  hedges  and  on  the  slender  white 
shaft  under  the  bent  willow  over  his  father's 
and  his  uncle's  grave — the  brothers  who  had 
fought  face  to  face  and  were  sleeping  side  by 
side  in  peace,  each  the  blameless  gentleman  who 
had  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his  king,  and, 
without  regret  for  his  way  on  earth,  had  set  his 
foot,  without  fear,  on  the  long  way  into  the  here 
after.  For  one  moment  his  mind  swept  back 
over  the  short,  fierce  struggle  of  the  summer. 

As  they  had  done,  so  he  had  tried  to  do;  and 
as  they  had  lived,  so  he,  with  God's  help,  would 
live  henceforth  to  the  end.  For  a  moment  he 
thought  of  the  flag  hanging  motionless  in  the 
dim  drawing-room  behind  him — the  flag  of  the 
great  land  that  was  stretching  out  its  powerful 
hand  to  the  weak  and  oppressed  of  the  earth. 
And  then  with  a  l?st  look  to  the  willow  and  the 
shaft  beneath,  his  fips  moved  noiselessly: 

"They  will  sleep  better  to-night." 

Judith  was  standing  in  the  drawing-room  on 
his  hearth,  looking  into  his  fire  and  dreaming. 
Ah,  God,  to  think  that  it  should  come  to  pass  at 
last! 

He  entered  so  softly  that  she  did  not  hear  him. 
There  was  no  sound  but  the  drowsy  tick  of  the 
great  clock  in  the  hall  and  the  low  song  of  the 
fire. 

"Sweetheart!" 

228 


CRITTENDEN 

She  looked  up  quickly,  the  dream  gone  from 
her  face,  and  in  its  place  the  light  of  love  and 
perfect  trust,  and  she  stood  still,  her  arms  hang 
ing  at  her  sides — waiting. 

"Sweetheart!" 

God  was  good  that  Christmas. 


THE  END 


229 


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